


Holy Crossbow Batman

by Audriss



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguments, Awkward Daryl, Canon Compliant, Character death - Past, Confessions, Drunk Daryl, Even mentioned characters are tagged, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, I'm diligent with the tagging, Injured Daryl, Lament for Beth, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death -off screen, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, My Heart Bleeds For Daryl, Past Child Abuse, Racist Language, Realization, Shared Tragedy, Slow Burn, Tragedy, Trauma, Walkers (Walking Dead), Zombie Apocalypse, child abuse is descriptive, desiderium, graphic description of walkers eating habits, i see them equals in this because, look Daryl isn't a simpering idiot, mentions of the Saviors, of sorts, sad thoughts, skinning a deer, sort of, thoughts, touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7205480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audriss/pseuds/Audriss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's hurting, and he's been hurting for a while. But he's the damn Badass of the Apocalypse with a crossbow in tow, and a scowl on his face. At least that's how everyone seems to see him nevertheless. No one just hadn't bothered to ask him what he might have wanted. So, it is a shock when Jesus actually asks just that and Daryl comes to a realization about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Are Still Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I have finished writing this fic. Chapter updates will follow soon!
> 
> Thank you for all of the people who were involved in this, who listened to me whine about this fic and who inspired me. I love you all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus doesn't see it until Michonne points it out. And Daryl just doesn't wanna talk about anything.

He spends more time in Alexandria than he does at Hilltop. But he hadn’t noticed it himself, though, oh no, it’s _pointed out_ to him, amidst digging trenches and driving piles into the dry, cracked earth. Michonne looks at him, squints her eyes and says pointedly, how he keeps returning to Alexandria when there’s work to be done at Hilltop too. 

She’s not wrong per se. There _is_ a lot of work to be done at Hilltop. And he’s seen the plans, he’s agreed to all of them, and they have decided to work together between Alexandria and Hilltop. They have an understanding, an agreement, between them. 

So, she smiles, clearly amused, and uses her know-it-all tone of voice Jesus really couldn’t stand, and states the obvious. But Paul Rovia cannot agree to that.

 _Not at all._ Not at _first_.

Because, he _argues_ profusely with her and proceeds to pout about it for the next two days, still hanging around inside the walls of Alexandria and helping out people, because he can’t turn his back on these people. He just doesn’t know how to implement Hilltop into his little defense speech, because he absolutely should be at Hilltop.

He still continues his stay in Alexandria, and sleeps wherever he finds enough space for himself; mostly on the couch of the Grimes’ house, helping with Judith in the mornings because he has grown fond of the little princess; and doing silly things with Carl, making the boy feel like a teenager for once, and getting him into trouble more often than not. Like with the skin magazines he sneaks to him between comics – who knew Rick would want to read the comics too?

Those nights he did feel he was overstaying his welcome; he sleeps in one of the cars parked inside the walls, and mostly complaining about a sore back and neck the next morning. The few times he travels back and forth between Hilltop and Alexandria, just once or twice really, but truthfully, they couldn’t spare the vehicles or the gas for something as frivolous as that.

He always slinks back into the house, invited or uninvited. 

He’s really good at making himself useful. Nobody really objects him staying at the house, though. They lived in a tribe, a village, and they’d had to get used to the sharing pretty fast; stuff wasn’t available like it had been before the Turn. Besides, he’d made himself irreplaceable in Michonne’s eyes after he had made his fluffy chocolate chip pancakes; his specialty from days gone by. 

So it isn’t really a wonder, that after about three weeks into the rebuilding and resettling, reinforcing and fortifying the walls and the fences of their little community, turning over the soil for the vegetables and other crops they were planning on planting later that spring, and building animal shelters, Rick pulls him aside from his duties, and tells him that they have reserved a room for him. In their house.

To be quite honest, he had perfectly good quarters back at home, back at Hilltop, with enough room for his belongings. But the last time he’d used a car, he’d dragged more than half of that back to Alexandria. It makes it easy for him to move into that room without much fuss.

He has actually made the room at Alexandria his own by now. 

Now, waking up comfortably in his _own room_ , and having no other arguments to cling onto, he has no choice but to accept the fact that he did spend more time at Alexandria than at Hilltop, and that alarms him to think about what the fuck was he doing, or why.

* * *

Sleep is overrated, at least in the apocalypse. 

He’s been in the rotation for guard duty for some time now. Standing on the walkway and leaning against the fence in complete darkness, listening to the insects and spring peepers chirr and the wind shifting through the leaves of trees, he’s extremely grateful that there are no sounds of the dead shuffling about or groaning nearby. He doesn’t have the energy to start making sure they aren’t ganging up by the fence. And he’s not in the mood of trying to figure out if he can hit them in the darkness.

The township made a decision to kill the lights every night a while ago. It was to conserve energy, and not draw any unwanted attention. It had reduced the wandering walkers to nearly half of what it used to be.

Two weeks and then some.

That’s how long he’s spent in Alexandria without visiting back home, at Hilltop.

He winces and glances over his shoulder, looking at the construction grounds that is now Alexandria and his brow knits together as he scolds himself for thinking that this isn’t his home now. He still doesn’t know how it happened, and why he prefers to loiter around Alexandria so much. He could go back to Hilltop, he could. But he’s not going and he’s not even sad about that.

The low rumbling of a motorcycle draws his attention down to the gate, his inner clock quickly reminding him that it’s past midnight. The bike stops just outside the gate, and the rider waits for the guard to open it with a displeasing creak. 

Daryl.

He’s been taking more and more shifts at their outpost, and the midnight’s shift change brings him back from another day of solitude 20 miles out. 

Jesus chews his cheek, brow knitting together as he looks at the archer, noticing the slight wince of his when he has to rest more weight on his left arm. The archer is still hurting from his shoulder wound, and if he wasn’t so goddamned stubborn he would get it in his thick skull to rest. 

As the gate closes with a too loud clang for the silence of the night, Daryl looks up at Jesus on top the fence. 

He salutes at the dark haired man, and he can see him scoff back at him before he speeds off, driving through the township, and further down the otherwise quiet street, over to one of the white houses where he resides with the Grimes’. 

When Jesus hears the bike come to a stop, and the engine shut down, he catches himself smiling, and more or less shocks himself by doing so. And suddenly he’s glad it’s so damn dark that you’d need a pair of night vision goggles to see anything.

* * *

After a night shift at the fence, Jesus is sitting on the couch in the Grimes’ house, staring at nothing in particular, and thinking something even less, when Daryl enters the house, and walks briskly into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of cold water and tosses it back in one go. Jesus catches himself staring at the archer – again – and manages to pull his eyes from him when he turns around and spots him on the couch. 

Daryl is all sorts of filthy and disgusting, with sweat beading on his forehead. The gloves he’s been wearing outside have left tan lines on his wrists. There are tan lines on his shoulders too, undoubtedly, and his black sleeveless shirt is mucked up with dirt. 

They’d told him to relax, take time to heal, but the man is a mule in human form and stubborn as fuck. Either he keeps digging the holes for the support beams just like the rest of the people or he goes out hunting, bringing in enough game for the township. Recently he’s been doing both of them, on top of the deal to spend 12 hours at the 20 mile outpost to stand guard.

He has noticed the exhaustion in his eyes, on his form, but he knows how well Daryl can mask it, refusing to accept that it’s not a weakness to admit that he needs to rest. And even when Jesus should say something about that, he still looks at the archer with a friendly interest twinkling in his eyes, so he grins and nods his head at Daryl. 

“Hello, buddy,” he chuckles, from his spot on the couch, feeling slightly cheated that the archer doesn’t startle.

Jesus knows he should be sleeping. He’s got another night of watch duty coming along. He’s been having trouble with sleeping, and thinking about how important it is for him to get some sleep isn’t helping. And still, talking to Daryl seems to be distraction enough for him from thinking about sleep, which just makes him relax more.

He receives a grunt as a reply, but by now he’d grown used to the monosyllabic answers from Daryl. It’s all in the way and level of voice he said those grunts that explain if he’s pissed or somewhat friendly. Trying to decode them isn’t rocket science, not really, but sometimes Jesus wonders has he ever said more than ten words to anyone. 

“How’s the arm?” Jesus then says, trying to keep up the conversation. He watches Daryl’s eyes darken and realizes he’s made a mistake by bringing up the arm, and he scolds himself silently for it. 

It’s instinctual, Daryl moves his right hand over the left shoulder, touching it gently and then glaring at Jesus like he wants to murder him. He probably really does. The slight shift and carefully removing his other hand from the shoulder are telltale signs that he’s still hurting some. 

“’s fine,” he then growls a reply, clearly not in the mood to talk about his injuries. 

He frowns a moment, before he sits up on the couch better, thinking how much he would have hoped for the dark haired man to get through this without scuffs. 

“Right, because you’re such a badass,” he chuckles, gesturing towards Daryl. Again, there’s just a disgruntled stare and no expression on his face. Jokes do not work on the man, but Jesus can’t help himself.

“None o’ ya business,” Daryl barks back, “The hell are ya here for?” he then asks, his eyes narrowing as he looks at the man in front of him.

Jesus gives a noncommittal shrug and sinks back into the couch, “Where’s everyone?” he then inquires himself.

“Meetin’ at the big house,” Daryl replies, placing the glass of water on the living room table, and plopping himself on the cozy armchair, kicking his feet on the table next to the glass. He’s only slightly amused when he notices the dirt and muck on Daryl’s boots.

“And why aren’t you over there?” he’s honestly curious, as he asks that, his tone calm and his big eyes trained on Daryl, that friendlier glint in his eyes now evident, as he continues to look at the grumpy resident redneck.

Daryl doesn’t reply. He shrugs and shifts in his seat, leaning back eventually, and then sighing deeply as he finds a better position. His breathing calms down, after a while and he remains quiet, but Jesus notices he isn’t fidgety or making his way off the seat, and that does speak volumes to him. 

“Y’ain’t there either,” Daryl then states, looking at the man in a wool hat; his bright blue eyes boring into Jesus’ green ones.

Now, it’s Jesus’ turn to shrug, “Been in my fair share of meetings lately. You’d think there wouldn’t be any in the apocalypse, right?” he chuckles. Either Daryl doesn’t get the joke, or he doesn’t find it funny. Instead, he just stares at Jesus.

The awkward silence makes Jesus squirm in his seat and he sighs, shrugging, “Yeah, I’m sure they can manage without us for one meeting,” Jesus then concedes, not wanting to point out that his earlier comment was a joke.

“Don’t really care,” Daryl says. 

“Okay.”

They fall into this unexpected silence Jesus doesn’t really understand, but he can feel how Daryl is glad they are not talking. And somehow it is comforting and it is what lulls Jesus into a dreamless sleep for the first time in a while.

He wakes up when Rick and Michonne walk through the door with Judith. Daryl’s nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, this is a future fic, or sorts. Or in other words this is what the show has been up until the end of the season six. But I've weaved a twist of my own concoction into it. I don't mention some of the characters because I don't know what happened to them at that "cleverly" effed up cliffhanger to make viewers come back for the season seven. The Saviors - that I do not like at all - are mentioned only briefly, to forward the plot.
> 
> I write for my pleasure. I don't get paid for this, for writing fanfiction. I love to write, and I love to challenge myself when I'm writing. That means I don't want to use and reuse plots that have been used and/or reused a million times over. That means, if you want to read the same thing over and over again, this isn't one of those.
> 
> I will not allow that shipping war shit on my fic, and I don't particularly care for being blamed about it, or for you reading a fic you don't like. I have tagged this fic rather diligently. So please, PLEASE, read the tags before you take your upset and spit it on my face. I like Beth, I like Emily Kinney, I like Bethyl. I will not apologize for writing this fic, and I will not apologize if you do not like this fic.


	2. We Are Still Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus has had a million different jobs. Daryl doesn't like one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Jen and Solene for translation help. Damn, my French sucks.

Jesus has had about a _million_ different jobs before the apocalypse tore through the earth. And since the entire township is interested in him, of course occupation comes up one way or the other. 

“So, let me get this straight, you’ve been a _chef_?” Michonne asks as her face melts into a blissful expression after taking a bite out of the perfect mushroom omelet Jesus just whipped up in the kitchen.

“Oui, mademoiselle, je suis un excellent cuisinier,” Jesus says and winks at her.

“What, now you speak French, too?” Rick drawls, not looking at Jesus, but instead of reading one of Carl’s comics, as he slowly sips his morning coffee.

“Oui, je parle un petit peu français mais c’est une langue très difficile,” he replies while shrugging his shoulders a little.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Rick grumbles, and makes Jesus laugh out loud with mouth open and head thrown back. 

This is a special kind of morning. Some of the people actually found a pretty decent amount of mushrooms, and the hens that were brought from Hilltop had finally started to lay eggs. Coffee - - that was a luxury item, but the last group they had sent out for a run had actually found one packet of coffee beans. It took them a while to get them grounded, but because of that it’s even more delicious.

“Where did you learn French?” Carl asks.

“Studied myself. I spent a while just travelling around Europe. I worked where ever I could, to make money, and it was easier to find jobs in France during summer. All those tourists just filling up restaurants,” he shrugs, “They hire anyone who knows how to boil an egg. I got sucked into that world. Learned a lot. And then, I worked in Quebec for about a year. Gotta pick up with the language, fast,” he continues and smirks, winking at Judith, making her giggle at him, and mush the cookie she holds in her tiny fingers. 

Michonne smiles and moves closer to brush the cookie crumbs from Judith’s purple dress.

“Man, that must have been awesome,” Carl sighs, “So, you were a cook before all this?” he continues to ask, leaning against the counter and looking at Jesus with curiosity. There are equally as many questions bubbling in his mind as Jesus has had jobs.

“Just one o’ my talents,” he replies to the boy, bowing his head slightly before turning back to the counter, and begins to mix up two more eggs in the bowl with a fork. 

“What else did you do?” the boy asks. Jesus isn’t surprised by the question. He expected it to happen.

“Oh, man! What haven’t I done?” he chortles, “I didn’t wanna be tied to just one thing,” as he begins to whisk two more eggs in a mixing bowl, and tosses some diced tomatoes into the liquid. He pours the mixture onto a pan and twirls it around, using the spoon and fork to cook the omelet evenly. 

“What else has there been then?” Rick asks, curious all of a sudden.

“I’ve been a waiter, waste collector, I’ve flipped burgers and I’ve cleaned gutters, I’ve cleaned crime scenes, I’ve worked as a chef,” Jesus starts to list things, and points out at the second omelet he slides onto the plate and pushes it in front of Rick.

“Bartending was fun the longest. No one night was similar with the others. I’ve worked at constructions, got a nail shot through my foot by a nail gun, and after that I studied to be physical therapist - -,” he continues.

“A physical therapist?” Rick’s interest quickly piques and he looks up at the long haired man. 

“Yeah?”

There’s a gleam in his blue eyes when he takes a sip of his coffee, and lowers the mug down onto the table, leaning back in his seat. Jesus isn’t sure if it’s making him feel uncomfortable – not very many things do – or if it’s going to be fun. 

“Daryl could use a little help with his shoulder.”

Jesus swallows, hard, and smiles a little. Fun might be out of the question with Daryl’s fists at close proximity to his face. 

* * *

“Fuckin’ Christ Almighty, if I say yes, will ya stop talkin’?” Daryl barks at Jesus and turns around so abruptly that it makes Jesus slam right into him. 

The man and his stupid wool hat had been bothering and following Daryl for the better part of the last hour, talking his ear off non-stop, about how important it was to make sure his shoulder would heal properly and why physical therapy in cases like this was necessary.

Daryl glares at the annoying man as he nods solemnly and smirks as a reply, which makes Daryl bristle even more. Jesus’ smug attitude has been Daryl’s number one problem since they met. So, he frowns and wants to slam his fist in his face and wipe off the irritating smirk of his. 

And as if he can read minds, Jesus concedes quickly, “Hey, I promised Rick,” as he tries to soothe the grumpy hunter at least a little bit. 

“Well, Rick and ya better learn to keep ya noses outta my business,” he growls, “Fucking physical therapist… yeah, right.”

Daryl knows two things right now; he doesn’t want help and he doesn’t _need_ help.

He ain’t some pussy who complains about things. He’s been injured before. He’s been beaten up before. He’s been shot before, with bullets and a damn bolt, and he’s been stabbed with a knife before! He’s made do on his own, just like he did when he was younger. But suddenly Rick and Michonne are fucking _worried_ about him. And now they’ve roped this _douche nozzle_ to help him? 

No, he doesn’t need help. Least from this jerkoff who thinks anything can be sorted out with an annoying smug attitude, flashing a smile and batting some eyelashes - - he stops himself quickly, still glaring at the other man. 

Hell, no. 

His stomach flips at what he just thought of.

“So, when - -,” Jesus starts and looks expectantly at Daryl. He looks innocent enough, without any ulterior motives, and Daryl can’t see any hint that he’s doing this to annoy the shit out of him. Unfortunately, it seems that Jesus enjoys his discomfort way too much and Daryl can’t abide that. 

“When I got the damn time,” he barks a reply that isn’t really a reply at all, leaving the stunned man standing in his wake.

In all honesty, _all_ he has is time. 

* * * 

It takes _four days_ for Jesus to finally get Daryl to agree to a quick check up. 

But it also gives Jesus enough time to remind himself what the fuck it was all about. Because it’s been years since he’s actually worked as a physical therapist, and he’s been killing the dead for few years now; and despite it’s almost like riding a bike, he needs to remind himself. Trying to remember what it was like before is harder than he thought it would be. 

There had been so many things he’d done or tried, to make ends meet or purely out of curiosity. Working at a VA hospital as a physical therapist was one of the things he’d done purely out of curiosity. 

He groans out of sudden spiking feeling of frustration, and slams the book he’d been reading shut before he leans back in his seat. He knows his way around human anatomy, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t trust himself with Daryl, mostly because he shied away from all and every social situation. He also knows that he and Daryl met under rather piss-poor circumstances and they are still to mend the rift it created. 

He looks around at the infirmary he’s chosen to use for this, since it’s the most neutral place in all of Alexandria, and also a place where Daryl wouldn’t feel so cornered, since it was Michonne and Rick’s idea that they do this. He stands up, and walks slowly to the sink to wash his hands. Scrubbing his fingers, he looks into the mirror and winces just a little at the reflection.

He’s not the same man he was before all this. Not really. 

He’s changed, and he just can’t decide in his mind if it’s for the good or for the worse. He’s still reminiscing, wrapped in his sudden bout of melancholy, when Daryl stomps in and tells him gruffly to get a move on.

Fingers still wet, he reaches up and begins to gather his hair into a ponytail he then twists into a bun on top of his head. He turns to look at Daryl, catching him staring at him. His brow knitted together, and Jesus can see him chewing the inside of his cheek nervously, but he can’t figure out if he’s pissed or maybe he’s just nervous. 

The archer is wearing a sleeveless flannel, those ancient and tattered jeans, and the black angel wing vest. There’s a mere flutter of some emotion – Jesus is not sure what it was, maybe amusement – on his face as he witnesses him making a bun.

When their eyes meet, and he realizes that Jesus is looking at him, that glimmer, faintest hint of amusement, of emotion just switches into a displeased glare, and Jesus sees that defiant and unyielding look in his eyes.

He gestures Daryl to come closer, and he does. 

At least he’s not growling and spitting fire and brimstone at Jesus; and he considers it as a good thing. Daryl stands still, as Jesus steps closer to him. Again a flicker of _something_ in his eyes catches Jesus’ attention, but then, instead of focusing on that he asks Daryl to show how much he can lift his left arm. 

The mobility isn’t that bad – which is a good thing; it was just painful as hell for Daryl. He lifts his arm too quickly, in a vain attempt to speed things up, and groans out loud when the pain sensors in his brain register the burning feeling in his joint and muscles. He lowers his arm down, slightly slower this time, and glares at Jesus.

“Are we done?” he asks, anxious to leave.

“No.”

He tests more of his mobility, he asks him to stretch and tell where it hurts after that, he requests – kindly – for Daryl to lift his arms and show the trajectory of his arm, for the next 30 minutes. Daryl does – equally docile and kindly – all the things he asks him to do, granting a death glare at each request. Jesus notices the slight winces, surges of pain he must be feeling, and his ears pick up the strained groans, but Daryl pushes through. Jesus almost feels sorry for him, and it makes him feel like shit.

After 40 minutes Jesus actually steps closer and reaches over to touch Daryl’s shoulder and back in order to see how tense his muscles are.

His fingers touch his shirt clad back first, followed by the palm, pressing his hand flat against his shoulder blade. Daryl tenses immediately, goes rigid, but Jesus pushes past the thought and slides his palm onto his shoulder. He pinches Daryl’s shoulder, the Trapezius muscle trapped between his thumb and forefinger, and the archer hisses at the feel. Then, Jesus runs his finger aligned with the shoulder blade over the muscle, and down his spine, finding few spots that seem to be knotted and achy. 

He’s still poking and pressing down, when Daryl shifts, stepping away from him, and spins around glaring daggers at him. 

Without thinking, he quickly reaches over, touching Daryl’s upper arm, worry etched into his features, and marring the otherwise perfect green of his eyes, so much so that it is like a punch in the face when Daryl flinches. The reaction is immediate and doesn’t go unnoticed.

And then Daryl tenses, when he realizes that Jesus noticed how he flinched at his touch.

“Daryl? Are you alright? Does it hurt?” Jesus asks, circling around him, looking at the archer, hoping for an answer instead of a right hook. Daryl doesn’t move, but he doesn’t answer Jesus either. 

Instead of bolting through the door of the clinic he stands still and the two men keep staring at each other for several long minutes. But then, feeling bolder at the sudden calm demeanor, and stillness of Daryl, Jesus _slides_ his hand up, onto Daryl’s shoulder and it breaks the pregnant silence, and the spell Daryl seems to be under suddenly. He steps aside, backing away, grabbing his vest, before mumbling hastily a haphazard excuse and walking briskly out of the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the French text:  
> “Oui, mademoiselle, je suis un excellent cuisinier." = "Yes, Miss, I am an excellent chef/cook."  
> “Oui, je parle un petit peu français mais c’est une langue très difficile." = "Yes, I speak a little bit of French, but it is a difficult language."


	3. We Are Still In Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl's mind is crowded and full of things he would have wanted to right. Jesus experiences loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you little Mesi and tiny Walnut for listening to me droning on and on and ooooon about the writing and cheering me up. ;)

It’s raining.

Daryl sits on the tailgate of the beat up, grey truck they’ve dragged into the woods as the inconspicuous shelter of their furthest outpost some 20 miles away from town along the small footpaths, and shivers in his wet clothes. He had to get out of Alexandria and chose to take the watch on that outpost; it’s his favorite of all the duties the township has to offer when he can’t go outside looking for new people. He doesn’t mind the solitude, he actually revels in it, and the sudden overload of socializing in Alexandria has left him hungry for peace and quiet. 

Rain and cold. They are the only things keeping the hell spawned walkers practically immobilized. They’ve taken all the precautions at the outpost recently. Daryl hasn’t seen a random walker at that place in days. Today, the freezing drizzle and low temperature of the night doesn’t make an exception. 

It’s so cold that his lips are slowly turning blue, and his teeth clatter in his mouth, even though he’s normally heated through and through to his core. His fingers feel sluggish and as cold as the air surrounding him. He knows he could sneak inside the cab of the truck, but he refuses to move. He’s been feeling trapped inside the walls of the township, and now that he’s got a fucking chance to stay away from all the chatter and lights and people he’s not going to hide himself inside a truck. 

He’s been living in the woods most of his life, quite literally. The shit hole of a house they lived in was in the woods, far away from _proper_ people’s eyes. Extreme conditions are nothing new to him. He spent one winter in a rickety hunting shed just to stay the hell away from his father. He spent another with Merle sleeping in cars, tents and sleazy motels whenever they had enough cash. Living off the land is nothing new to him, and living with whatever he managed to scrounge up that day was even less new to him. Whatever the woods could offer he’d taken it. But it was not to say that he hadn’t resorted to thieving. There were at least some dozen housewives in Orchard Hill, who had blamed their kids for stealing pies and bread and other baked goods. 

He looks up to the sky again and sighs deeply.

The rain is still pouring steadily. The gray and dark blue of the sky swirling above him as the clouds shift and readjust. He can see the dark sky peeking through the clouds, and a few lonely stars shining in the vastness of space. Other than the water drops hitting the metal surface of the truck, and rustling in the leaves of the trees and on the surface of the puddles forming on the ground, it was silent, serene even. 

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans awkwardly, he huffs as he shifts and feels the weight of his crossbow settle against his back comfortingly. He stands like that for a while, unmoving and trying to concentrate on the sounds of the water instead of his own thoughts that clutter and bounce inside of his head. 

Because he’s alone, just among his own thoughts, he can admit that he always loved the rain. At least it’s one thing that won’t let him down or disappear, because after a fucking sunny day it’ll always rain eventually. He shifts again, feeling the cold seep into his muscles. Swinging the crossbow off his shoulder, he brings it to his lap. The movements of his are slightly jarred, from the numb feeling in his limbs and from the water that seeps slowly through his clothes. 

Huffing, he starts to scratch and rub the butt of the crossbow with his gnawed thumb nail; mud, dried blood, bits and pieces of guts whatever it is that is stuck onto the surface. He keeps scratching it absentmindedly because he can’t seem to distract himself enough with this menial task. 

It’s not even remotely fair that he can’t get away from his own mind; not in a crowd, not alone, and rarely in his sleep either. 

He’s just so fucking tired. Tired of all the panicked people and the responsibilities that have been bestowed upon him, just because he’s got skills to survive in this shithole of a world, even though he knows – deep down – that it’s not just that. 

Most of all he’s tired of losing people.

No, he doesn’t care if someone opts to leave on their own, try their wings. It might work out for them, it might not. It wasn’t his place to say. It didn’t bother him none. There had been people – not very many – to have committed suicide, too. To this day he was almost certain that his mother had killed herself just to get away from Will Dixon. 

He didn’t bother thinking much of those people. 

But even someone like him, taught not to show his emotions, the life beaten out of him, emotionally and physically abused by his father over and over again; even a man such as himself had been driven over the edge a few too many times and forced to watch people he cared deeply for being killed. 

_Beth._

He’d tried to save her. He really, truly had.

Truth to be told, she’d been the last person he would have thought to get out of the prison. 

But then, she hadn’t given up on him when he had hit rock bottom after the prison fell and he blamed himself for not keep looking for the Governor. She’d forced him to face the facts, face the situation and make the best of it. And he actually had been relatively happy for that few weeks they’d spend together on the run. 

But then, she’d been taken, and he wasn’t able to rescue her. Not from the car with a white cross, not from the place that had kept her as a hostage, and he’d been forced to watch her get shot, after being so close to being freed. 

No. He wasn’t over it. He’d never be, he’s sure of it. Nobody understood that, no one. He’s all alone with his thoughts, with the events. 

And then, Denise. 

He’d tried to be better than all the scumbags at the end of the world. 

He’d tried to help Dwight, and only to lose his bike and crossbow. And then - - then he’d used Daryl’s own crossbow to kill Denise right in front of his face, when he’d really tried to aim for his sorry ass. The fucker had managed to shoot him too; and like clockwork, a twinge on his shoulder reminds him of its existence. 

The township had fallen soon after that; fighting back against the Saviors, trying to break loose from the deal they had been coerced into. They had lost some good people then too. And even if he didn’t like the fenced, suburban nightmare of white houses and panicky people, it was the one thing that kept his people alive. 

But he blamed himself violently about what had happened. It made him feel like he’d now fulfilled the curse that was in the Dixon blood. He, too, was a fuck-up, and it would never change. 

All of that ate him from the inside, and he should have been much stronger than that. 

_“Didn’t raise ya to be a pussy! C’mere, ya pussy! Gonna beat that outta ya!”_

_“Are ya his bitch now, lil’ brother?”_

Both his father and Merle’s voices keep echoing in his mind, as if they always knew he was a failure in life, taunting him and telling him he was nothing, a nobody. 

They had never really left, and sometimes he actually missed the life he’d had before. No, not because he missed his father; he missed Merle more, but because at least with his family, at least back then, he knew what to expect.

He _had_ let his guard down. He _had_ let the group affect him. He had let them get close to him. All those people back in Alexandria, all the people who had gotten close to him. He’d done no real favors for them. Because they had lost so many of them already, and he could hardly deal with that. 

Rick, Michonne, Carl, baby Judith, Aaron, Eric, Maggie… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…

No. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. He just doesn’t want to lose anyone else. He doesn’t want to get close to anyone else. 

The water droplets fall down from his hair, sluicing over his face. He’s more than soaked to the bone now. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a pack of smokes, and lights up one. Drawing in a deep breath of the smoke, he continues to listen to the otherwise dead silence and the pitter-patter sounds of the raindrops. He sniffles, flicking his head a little, to get the wet hair out of his face, and feels the burn under his eyelids. 

Yeah, he likes the rain. Because in the damn, fucking rain no one could see him cry.

* * *

News about deaths at Hilltop devastates Jesus, and he packs his stuff deciding to go back. 

If he wasn’t so distraught about those two deaths, he would have realized he was equally upset to be leaving Alexandria. Distraction is what makes him explain something vague about the situation to Rick of all people, even if it’s not easy. 

Rick understands when Jesus requests that he does not tell the others what he’s just told him, and of course the former deputy slips into a diplomatic mode, agreeing to Jesus’ wishes. He makes one of his own, hoping that since Jesus has become an integral part of their community that he’d return soon. The light haired man does not give any promises that he would return back in the near future. 

He can see disappointment in Rick’s eyes and in his voice when he asks if there is anything Alexandria can do for them, for Hilltop, or for him. His reply is a warm chuckle, but he refuses any personal help, only promising that Hilltop and Alexandria’s mutual agreement still stands. 

He leaves the compound after dark, and avoids the small service road they have cleared that leads to their watch outpost where Daryl is on duty.

When Rick tells Daryl the next morning, the archer feels suddenly more at ease. He’d had trust issues about Jesus ever since they had met. Jesus stealing the keys to the truck they had found wasn’t really a great first impression, but neither was him repeatedly getting out of handcuffs, ropes and zip ties they used to bind him.

Just as promised, Alexandria and Hilltop keep in touch. They receive all the news about the deaths of the two people who were Jesus’ friends. They had been attacked suddenly by walkers coming out of nowhere. That tightens Alexandria’s security too. They prowl the surroundings and finish all the walkers they come across with in a 15 mile radius. 

Delivery swaps between them occur once a week. They are trying to make things less conspicuous, but they want to be prepared if someone is trying to take what is theirs. All is done according to their new plans. 

And each time a swap is taking place Daryl keeps getting more and more anxious than before. First, he expects the jerkoff to come back and fuck with his head once again, but then he begins to wonder why the annoying beanie wearing douche hasn’t come back yet.

It confuses the shit out of him. 

Rick, bless his soul, tries to give him an update on the news they’ve received from Hilltop; and Daryl acts like he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. Not really. Or that’s what he’s trying to tell himself. 

So, instead, he does what is needed, or whatever is asked, and soon he’s lulled himself into a false sense of normalcy. 

_Because, he just wants a place to be, and be alone._

But, after two months Jesus returns late one night and holes up in the house with Rick to discuss something that had happened at Hilltop. It’s the first time Rick doesn’t share things with the rest of the group. And _that_ makes Daryl antsy.

The following weeks, things seem to be as normal as they can be in the apocalypse, and Jesus acts like he always has. It makes Daryl even antsier as it rubs him the wrong way that Rick and Jesus have opted not to share whatever happened during their discussion. So, he catches himself looking at Jesus more often than not. 

It stresses him out. And it makes him careless. 

* * * 

He doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t remember what happened, or how he escaped even. He can’t figure out if he killed all the walkers or not. He doesn’t even remember how he managed to get back to the gate of Alexandria, but when he hobbles onto the road and stumbles to the gate, seeing Spencer and Carl on watch on top of the fence, he finally lets himself go and collapses onto the ground. 

The faint call of his name and Carl shouting for help sound like they come from underwater, and the blurred figures running towards him are enough to make him smile a little that he made it. 

After that everything is just - - blackness.

When he comes to, he is in the infirmary, with straps around his ankles and wrists and one over his chest. 

It had become the foolishly idiotic protocol – at least in Daryl’s mind – if someone inside the walls had been deemed infected or bitten. They need to be certain and strapping a person onto a bed is what they call ‘making it sure’. 

But Daryl thinks they should know better. They’d seen it – a long time ago in the CDC Atlanta! They had made human experiments and the entire facility had fallen save for one.

 _He_ had seen it too, before he and Merle joined the group. 

He remembers the first walkers they met on their way out of Orchard Hill and to Atlanta, and he remembers how Merle said it would be a bad idea to cram so many people in an already large, crowded city. 

Atlanta had collapsed under its own impossibility. The _world_ itself had collapsed under its own impossibility!

It’s not just remembering things from the beginning. He _feels_ it too. He feels lightheaded, he’s hot and sick and everything hurts. Isn’t that what Jim told them a long time ago? He chortles out a whimpering laugh and his mind blanks for a second. 

_It’s fitting, isn’t it_ , he thinks.

He’ll die because of some stupid, careless moment he chose to think of Jesus and the secret he has with Rick. 

Yeah, he’ll die, and he’ll probably go to hell, because there ain’t enough good deeds in the world to make up the fact that he’s a goddamned Dixon. And he’ll be seeing his twisted family right there; Merle, is father, his mother and even his uncle. And then, he’ll just rise again and attack _this family_.

He struggles against the straps, until someone touches his arm, and he looks up only to see the worried faces of his group looking at him. They are all wide eyed, panic and worry alternating on their faces, as they keep staring at him. 

“Daryl,” Rick breathes out loud and takes a step closer to the bed. He squeezes his arm reassuringly and then opens the strap across his chest. 

“No, don’t,” Daryl whines, his voice laced with panic and tears.

He doesn’t want to attack Rick. He’s got the kids, he’s got Michonne. He’s the leader, he’s a better man than he is. They should just blow his brains out. They _need_ to do it. He’s infected, there’s no way around that, _right_?

But then, Michonne steps closer, her right hand landing softly on his left shoulder. She looks at him, _really looks at him_ , into his eyes as he tries to struggle against the warm touch of her hand. She finally lets out a breath she had been holding and nearly throws herself on him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Oh, fucking Christ, you scared us all!” she breathes, into his ear. She doesn’t swear a lot, and that frightens Daryl. He gets even more shocked when he sees her crying, and he can’t comprehend that in any way. She’s not supposed to cry over him. 

“What happened?” Rick asks, opening slowly the straps around his wrists, while Michonne pulls herself away from Daryl, and takes a step back and moves to open the straps around Daryl’s ankles. 

“Daryl, I’m just going to take your temperature,” Rosita says, and before he gets to say anything, she pokes his ear with a thermometer. The rustling and shuffling in his ear sounds strange, unfamiliar, and he winces at the coldness of the tip, but stays still until the device beeps.

“’dunno,” Daryl groans, falling back into the pillows, his eyes fluttering, because his eyelids are suddenly feeling too heavy, “Guess they got me… just get… it over… with.”

They glance at each other confused about what Daryl means at first, until Michonne whispers, “Daryl, you’re not bitten. You’ve got a fever of 100.4, but that’s not going to kill you. Eric, can you bring some water?” she says half to Daryl, half to Eric.

Eric nods quickly, walking over and placing a glass of water onto a small table next to Daryl’s bed. Daryl’s eyes focus quickly on the beads of water forming on the surface of the glass, and finally trickling down. Everything else seems so far away and so small except the glass of water his mind completely focuses now. 

Michonne keeps whispering to Daryl, leaning closer and stroking his hair ever so lightly, practically sobbing as she clutches his hand so tight it hurts his fingers. 

“Aaron said you spent the night in the rain, that must be why you’re feeling sick,” Eric says, turning to look at Aaron standing at the foot of the bed.

“Why on earth would you just stay in the damn rain, man?” Rick sighs. 

“The problem is - - we don’t have much meds,” Aaron says, his arms crossed to his chest, “So, we’re going to have to lower your body temperature the old fashioned way. It’ll take a while for you to break this fever’s back.”

He doesn’t really listen to them. Because he doesn’t understand. All the symptoms fit, don’t they? Maybe he got bit and he just can’t remember it. Maybe this is just some kind of a feverish hallucination. Maybe he’s already dead. 

“Daryl?” 

“Daryl, are you - -,” someone whispers.

“Let him sleep.”

The voices quiet down after that and there’s again nothing but darkness where he slumbers.

* * *

When he wakes up for the second time, he has no idea how much time has passed. His eyes fly open, and he scans the room out of habit, looking for any and all threats. The room is silent and dark, and he can’t see anything alarming inside of it. He slumps back onto the bed and sighs, trying to calm himself down before he tries to reassess where he is and what is going on.

His senses focus quickly onto the heavy feeling on his chest and how his skin suddenly burns like its on fire, and he remembers – much to his dismay – that he’s running a fever. His shoulder is throbbing, and he can feel the heart beats in the tender wound and it makes him groan out loud. It seems to be impossible for him to get any real rest since he’s feeling hot and cold at the same time, and all the movements hurt his skin.

So, he is lingering amidst awake and slumber until someone touches his forehead, startling him wide awake. He swats the hand away, scrambling sitting up on his bed.

“Hey, it’s just me,” a voice in the darkness says, and when the person comes closer, Daryl recognizes Jesus’ beard and long hair – not in a bun this time. 

There’s a half-hearted grunt as Daryl slumps down onto the bed, pulling the sheet higher over him, before he asks the inevitable question, “What’re you doing here?” 

It’s not an angry tone; it’s just Daryl-like to spit it out in such a manner. Jesus smiles lopsidedly before he shrugs his shoulders and sits back down onto the seat next to Daryl’s bed.

“It’s my turn. We’ve been taking turns watching you.”

“The fuck?” Daryl barks and glares at him irritated, and slightly shocked at the revelation that they’ve been taking turns watching him. He doesn’t need to be babied; he can make it on his own. 

“Your fever’s been seesawing up and down. We tried cool towels, a selection of meds – at least what we have – and it’s been pretty persistent for the past two days.”

“Two fucking days? Man, ya know nothing,” Daryl grumbles, and sits up again, pushing the sheet off and shuffling his feet over the edge of the bed.

Jesus hurries quickly in front of him and stops the archer from getting up, by placing his palm firmly but gently on his shoulder, “Hey, you ain’t getting up from this bed. You’re still sick!”

“Fuck that, ‘m gonna get me some willow bark tea and ‘m fine,” Daryl’s reply is still gruff and he shoves Jesus’ hand off of him swiftly. He stands up, despite the other man trying to stop him, and immediately feels the dizziness take over his head, forcing him to take support from the bed. 

Jesus, that ass, is quickly by his side and takes a hold of his waist and helps him sit back down onto the cursed bed. 

“I’ll get the tea, whatever you need. Okay? I’ll get the tea, would that make you stay put?” Jesus offers quickly. 

“Yeah, and ya gonna put some rat poison in it, too,” Daryl growls, distrust in his eyes as he glares at the other man. 

“Look, I want you to trust me,” he says to Daryl, “I’m just asking for a chance to put things right,” he continues, standing one second and sitting down next to Daryl the other, “Just… Just give me an honest chance, that’s all I ask.”

Daryl avoids looking at the man for a good while, before he finally works up the courage to look up into his eyes, and realizes how close he sits on the bed – fucking close enough to count the faint freckles lightly scattered on his nose and cheeks. 

But then he looks at him, stares into his eyes, and he can feel his breathing hitch in his throat. Those eyes - - they’re now less mischievous than he’s ever seen before. They’re honest, warm, welcoming even, and he has got no idea what to say to the man.

“Maybe we can start again?” he asks from Daryl, sticking out his hand, “Hi, I’m Paul Rovia, but people tend to call me Jesus. Either works for me.”

Daryl glowers at him, still silent, staring at the offered hand like it’s a poisonous snake. 

“Okay, no pressure,” Jesus shrugs, backing away, lifting his hands up in the air, “We can - -,” he continues, but Daryl interrupts.

“Daryl,” he grunts, pulling the sheet over his chest and sinks deeper into the bed almost stubbornly, “’m Daryl.”

“Nice to meet you, Daryl,” a smile follows his words, but it’s still genuine and honest, and Daryl does not feel as antsy as before anymore around _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that while willow bark tea does lower fever and helps with the pain relief and has been used as such by the Native Americans I am not fully educated with nature remedies! Willow bark tea can be found in certain naturopathic stores online. Please do your research before diving into the world of natural remedies.
> 
> I mention willow bark tea here because Daryl has shown that he knows enough of said subject.


	4. We Are Still Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl gets better, but has a tendency to run away.

It takes two weeks for Daryl to get better. They suspected pneumonia, and loaded Daryl up with antibiotics they still had in the infirmary. With medication, such as antibiotics, it was always a gamble, and after four days of someone handing him something to get down with water he was more or less done and tells everyone just that. 

Rosita insists he might still be sick, demanding for him to stay and rest, when he pushes forcefully past her and Rick and tells them to piss off, and he ain’t staying indoors any longer. It’s ironic how that is the exactly same reason he got stuck in the infirmary in the first place. 

He’s never responded well to demands either. 

“Fuckers,” he growls, walking out of the infirmary, and throwing his jacket and vest on quickly. He doesn’t tell them that he’s going to go and find himself some white pine or wormwood, and boil some water for steam inhalation and tea. He still has the willow bark Jesus scrounged up for him but it helps only so far and doesn’t really taste good. 

He hears Rick chuckling, and Daryl wants to punch his face. But he doesn’t, as easy as it would be - - it’s not ever as simple. Rosita calls after him and reminds him to drink a lot of fluids, and return for a checkup the next day. 

Yeah, he’ll drink alright. He’ll get piss ass drunk and try to forget why he was so damn stupid in the first place to get ambushed, injured and wet enough to catch pneumonia. If he can find some booze somewhere. So, for now, he places Rosita and Rick both on his shit list as he runs out of the infirmary; and he vows he isn’t going to set one foot inside that place for years to come, as he heads towards the houses and contemplates on looting Aaron and Eric’s liquor cabinet. 

* * *

Daryl snuffs the cigarette onto the ground, looking at the grease stained fingers of his, and standing next to his bike. He’s been tinkering away with the bike for a good week now, but he doesn’t know what the hell he wants to do with it. 

There isn’t anything wrong with it anymore. He has scrubbed the damn thing from top to bottom twice now, and he just finished an oil change.

He’s still contemplating, trying to decide if he wants to take the bike for a spin or not, when Jesus strolls up to him, hands in his jeans’ pockets, wearing a crisp white shirt, his hair down to his shoulders, and beard trimmed neatly without that stupid beanie he keeps wearing. The choice of clothes make Daryl scoff a little, and question Jesus’ brain activity for once. 

“Hi,” he greets Daryl, and gets a low hum of a grunt as a reply.

Weirdly enough, they’ve been having these strange moments every now and then lately; mostly because Jesus seems to be determined to get to know him better, get him to trust the man, and maybe that’s the reason Daryl isn’t as irked by his presence and questions anymore. 

He’s not sure if he really does trust the green eyed man yet or not, though. He hasn’t given him any reasons not to trust him, but it all boils down to their first meeting on the road. At least Daryl can admit that he’s not too blue eyed to let things fade away just like that.

He watches Jesus sit down onto the step of the stairs next to his bike. From the corner of his eyes, he keeps looking at the man, and feeling irrationally protective over his bike as he keeps eyeing at the bike instead. 

He brushes that feeling aside, and with a fluid motion he reaches for his pocket, pulling out a scrunched up pack of Morley’s, and pulls out one of the cigarettes. He brings it to his mouth, letting it hang from between his lips, and with a casual flick of the lighter he puffs it until it lights and then inhales deeply, the spicy and acrid heaviness of the smoke settling inside of him, slowly calming him down.

“Those are bad for you,” Jesus voices out and points at the cigarette butts on the ground, as well as the one he’s currently having. 

It’s one of his rare vices, and he’s been with his bike for some time now and there’s been at least three or four cigarettes he’s smoked while trying to figure out what do to the bike next. Truthfully, it still feels like it’s a sin for him to own something like his own bike, after he’s been told time and time again while growing up that he shouldn’t get attached to anything or anyone. 

“Look who’s talkin’,” Daryl replies after a moment of silence, and glances at Jesus with a side eye. He knows well enough that the light haired man smokes as well, when ever it suits him.

“Fine, gimme one,” the man in question says and pokes his hand out, palm up, and waits for Daryl to produce one of the cigarettes for him. He does just that; hands one over, and not at all reluctantly. He watches Jesus bring it to his lips, and then patting his pockets, but only frustrating Daryl with that. 

He rolls his eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek, and flicks out his lighter, and lights up the cigarette just to get rid of the excess hassle. Jesus smiles at him, when their eyes meet, and he steps back, shrugging his shoulders. 

They stay like that, Daryl standing by his bike, and Jesus sitting on the steps of the house, in silence, puffing their cigarettes keeping an eye on nothing in particular, and suddenly it’s more comfortable than it has ever been for Daryl. 

He let’s his guard down for that one thousandth of a second, moving to sit down onto the steps next to Jesus. Leaning his elbows onto his knees he licks his dry lips, and his tongue feels like sandpaper. He’s sweating, and he’s hot, and the sun is beaming down on him, and of course there’s that little nagging voice inside of his head saying that he ought to drink some water. 

He _knows_ he should, but he finds it difficult to get up at the moment. There have been only two people he has felt comfortable with; without having to resort to fidgeting. Despite their first, rather rough first meeting, Rick had become someone he can relax with, and Beth, at the funeral home. 

His fragile relaxation shatters and he shifts nervously when Jesus sits up straight, too, mirroring his posture, and leans his elbows against his knees. He sneers at him, and keeps side eyeing at him; the silence of the light haired man making him suspicious for a moment. 

“What?” he finally barks at the man sitting beside him.

“Nothing. I’m not going to start asking questions, Daryl. I know you’re not going to give me any answers. You got to trust me first,” Jesus replies, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, crossing his fingers, and keeps looking into the distance at the pond and beyond that. 

“Pfft!” Daryl scoffs in reply, but his words make him frown. 

This man - - is everything he’s not – and it’s not necessarily a bad thing; he doesn’t compare himself to Jesus in any way or that he would want to be the other man. But it’s weird that he can make Daryl feel so at ease in a matter of seconds, despite all that has happened. 

And even if he didn’t know much about the higher education in the not-so-distant past, there are still certain inexorable truths in this world no matter what. Toast will _always_ fall butter-side down; someone will always get drunk and make an ass of themselves; it will always fucking rain when you’d expect it to be a beautiful day; and opposites attract. It’s more or less a universal truth; polarity.

Daryl isn’t dumb. And he’s more observant than people give him credit for. 

He found out about Jesus’ boyfriend – or ex-boyfriend – the day after he returned to Alexandria. Aaron and Eric were talking about it and he happened to hear them, not that he was eavesdropping. 

He knows the man had been attacked by walkers on a routine patrol, and he’d died. He knows the dead man was the reason Jesus left to go back at Hilltop, but he also knows the same dead man was the reason he came back. And, he _knows_ his death is still a sore spot for the man.

And yet, he keeps wondering if he’s doing this because he wants to be more than just friends. Because for once, Daryl’s curious. 

“This is nice,” Jesus speaks then, and Daryl hopes his sudden jump goes unnoticed.

He does a good job masking it as a slight turn of his head as he stares down at Jesus, “The fuck are ya yammerin’?”

“It’s peaceful now,” Jesus replies, unfazed by Daryl’s sudden outburst.

“Calm before the storm, ‘s what it is,” he counters back and scoffs out loud.

“You know what? You’re such an up person,” the other man chortles out loud. 

It’s Daryl’s death glare that makes him laugh out loud, and the laughter bounces around him like a couple of spring bunnies, new to the world, confusing Daryl even more and he can’t take it.

He stands up, still glaring at Jesus, and quickly gathers his stuff together, while Jesus’ laughter tickles his burning ears. He hops onto the bike, boots roughly at the kickstand and starts the engine. Giving one more frustrated and totally annoyed glare at Jesus, he drives off with a displeased frown on his face. Considering it was comfortably cozy a moment ago, it surely turned awkward and painful in a matter of fractions. 

* * *

Waking up to a nightmare wasn’t new to Daryl. His childhood was constant material for his nightmares. But waking up to a dream of a different kind was. 

He jumps up from the bed like the whole thing was on fire, and paces back and forth, back and forth a few times before he manages to calm himself down. The bed looks now like his worst enemy, and he can’t bring himself to sit on it. Instead he leans against the wall, brushing his sweaty palms against his jeans covered thighs. He can’t still bring himself to sleep without his pants. 

His normally steady hands are now trembling. What the fuck made him suddenly have a dream about _that_? 

The images of the dream still flashing behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, or blinks and it makes him feel like a captured tiger. He walks to the window, looks into the darkness and sees only his own distorted reflection as he leans his palms against the narrow windowsill, trying to calm his racing heart. 

He would rather walk into a herd of walkers than repeat that dream to anyone.

 _Hands_ , everywhere; all the sounds and the feel of the dream, the laughter and the soothing words and the touches that - - hell fucking no. 

He takes a deep breath, shudders immediately at the sound slamming his fist hard against the wall. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he growls out loud, mostly to himself, before he shakes his head and gathers his shirt, boots and vest in his hands and dresses himself quickly. He storms out of the room, and skips downstairs two steps at a time, where he nearly runs into Rick and Michonne canoodling on the front porch. 

Her soft laughter and Rick’s whispers to her trigger the images of his dream again, and he growls. 

“Daryl?” Michonne asks, standing up quickly and watching Daryl shake his vest, before he throws it on hastily. 

“What’s wrong?” Rick asks almost immediately after Michonne, alarmed by her and Daryl’s grumpier than normal attitude, and Daryl can’t help but think how much in sync those two are. 

“Nothin’,” he shakes his head, jogging the steps down, “Just gonna... go... for a walk, or somethin’.”

Almost running into the darkness he walks towards the only fucking place he can where he knows he can be alone and no one will bother him. 

He needs to gather his thoughts, sort them out and find a way not to obsess about these situations, because he’s getting frustrated at himself, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. 

He creeps behind the house of Aaron and Eric, and truly, really considers walking inside and grabbing a bottle or two from their liquor cabinet. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he just stomps to their little garden shed he helped to set up. 

There are tools for their garden they have planted, and he has been meaning to sharpen some of them and fix the other half. He’s been distracted by the recent events and turn of things that he hasn’t been keeping up with his promise. 

He doesn’t really pay much attention when he stumbles in and begins to rummage through the tools, picking them up one by one and dropping them onto the ground with a loud clang before he picks up a whetstone, a screwdriver and a hammer, and a handful of screws and nuts. 

He sits angrily down onto a plastic chair and begins to scrape off rust and muck and sharpen a pair of garden sheers, making incessant and totally unnecessary amount of noise in the process.

“Daryl?” a sleepy voice of Aaron’s floats across the backyard, followed by an equally sleepy, “What is it?” from Eric. 

They are both rubbing sleep from their eyes as they wobble over the yard to Daryl and look around at the mess of tools spread around the archer, who is furiously scraping the rust off the sheers. Eric’s eyes droop as he yawns and leans his head against Aaron’s shoulder, trying to force himself awake but seemingly failing.

“Wh-What’s going on, Daryl?” Aaron inquires, stifling a yawn himself, and pointing at the items on the ground. Aaron’s kind and calm demeanor throws Daryl off a little. He doesn’t understand why he is the way he is even though he woke them both up needlessly in is own crusade against his feelings. 

But, to be quite honest, kindness doesn’t really pull any answers from him – not when he’s grumpy and completely annoyed with his own existence. 

“Is there a reason you’re in our backyard shed sharpening this - - stuff?” Eric asks, slightly more awake now, frowning slightly, but with a lip curled into half a smirk.

Daryl stops, and looks at them both, before he shoves the sheers and the whetstone from his lap onto the ground and stands up. His fight or flight instincts on overdrive, but instead of rushing away from the situation he begins pacing in front of the two drowsy men.

“Yeah...” he growls, “’m sick and tired of being teased day in and day out! Every fuckin’ time he just comes to talk, like it’s a goddamn fix for him! If he ain’t got enough balls and brains to talk to me without patronizing me I ain’t gonna work with him again!” he fumes.

The thing is, he really doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He isn’t blaming Jesus at all, or anyone else for that matter. His insecurities play this game now, and he can’t really go on telling people about the dream, about how he suddenly feels, because there hasn’t really been a sentence with “Daryl” and “feelings” in it. 

“Umm... Daryl, who are you talking about?” 

He looks at Aaron, blushes – honest to God, blushes – and his fingers squeeze into tight fists, standing in the circle of discarded garden tools and stares defiantly at Aaron and Eric.

“Oh,” Aaron says, pursing his lips and gives a quick look at Eric who realizes it about the same time.

“Paul,” Eric replies, nodding.

“Whatever,” Daryl grumbles, looking away from them, face heated. 

“Look, isn’t this getting a bit out of hand, Daryl?” Aaron asks gently as he moves closer and places his palm on the hunter’s shoulder, “You and him, you’ve been circling each other like a cat around melting butter and you still haven’t made your peace with one another.”

“Hate the guy.”

“It’s a fine line between love and hate,” Eric says, and yawns so hard his jaw cracks. 

“Shut up.”

“Daryl, play nice,” Aaron scolds, “Eric, stop playing a matchmaker.”

Eric chuckles, until he sees Daryl’s more than shocked face. He bites his cheek then and tries to mask his smirk by turning his head to the other direction. 

“What?” Daryl asks, in a huff.

“Um… Daryl, we know you lost someone,” Aaron starts, rolling his eyes at Daryl’s scowl, “Rick and Michonne told us - - Look, it really doesn’t matter why or how. They, we both - - Us all. We are worried about you. But we can’t help you, unless we know what you want.”

“What do ya mean ‘what I want’? I ain’t lookin’ for a pity party!”

Aaron stays calm at the outburst, already familiar with Daryl’s way of displaying insecurities. He takes a deep breath though, as he tries to find the right words, staggering only for a moment.

“What you have with Rick, what you have with us, what you had with her, _Beth_ \- - You know what that is, right?” he starts, but doesn’t really expect Daryl to answer, “But what is it that you need?”

Daryl’s face is still blank from all understanding. 

“Is it just sex? Maybe you’re just looking for friendship. Or maybe you just want to have a family and belong,” he continues, listing all the things that make the tips of Daryl’s ears and his cheeks glow red. 

“Companionship? Partnership? Maybe even love?” Eric adds.

“Because Paul… I’m almost sure that _he_ wants more than just being friends with you,” Aaron explains, or tries to. He looks at Daryl, the flush of embarrassment and paleness of shock alternating on his face.

“Yes, he lost someone important too, but they had been broken up a while ago. And I know it’s not easy, but - - wait! Daryl!” Aaron tries to explain, but Daryl isn’t listening.

And he can’t stop himself from running away - - yet again. He stomps out of the backyard faster than either of the other men are able to try and stop him with words like ‘sex’, ‘friendship’, ‘family’, ‘belonging’, ‘companionship’, ‘partnership’ and ‘love’ playing shadowy mind games in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me explain the dream... they aren't always clear as day. Daryl doesn't really understand the dream now, and it was meant to be hazy, almost "barely there" kind of thing. Like the wing of a butterfly touching your cheek, accidentally. He gets the feelings, the sounds and the touches in it but he can't quite put it into a _coherent_ and understandable vision. 
> 
> But you can get as dirty with the imagery as you want! >:)


	5. We Are Still Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus asks the right questions, and Daryl tries to answer them. He finally can admit how he felt before and what he feels now. But it is not without a recoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't discriminate real people for being what ever and who ever they want to be in life. So, I don't do that to a character of a fictional show either. That means, that describing Daryl _only_ as gay is totally out of question for me, unless it is truly said that he is just gay. 
> 
> Fluid, bi, gay, straight, asexual, what ever he really identifies himself as!
> 
> Also, this is a little nod to my [Some Rabbit Ballotine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3518960/chapters/7738235) fic! :D

Despite their respect towards Daryl and his privacy, Aaron and Eric refuse to let the situation dissolve on its own. So, they spun a clever ploy to get both of the fighting cockerels under the same roof and use their dinner as bait. 

Jesus comes over because he’s curious, and Daryl shows up because there’s good food. 

The dinner, not spaghetti this time, is the most awkward one they’ve ever been part of. It didn’t do much good to have Drunk Deer Chili as their main course. Aaron and Eric chitchat with a very polite Jesus while Daryl shovels food into his mouth and keeps glaring at the light haired man like he’s the Antichrist. By the third spoonful of the deer chili he decides that there isn’t enough bourbon in it to make this dinner anything less than disastrous. He concentrates on eating and keeping his mouth shut.

“So,” Eric begins rather smugly, taking a sip of wine and turning to look at Jesus, who is seated next to Aaron, “Tell me about you.”

The light haired man chuckles out loud – nervously, as Daryl’s ears pick the tone quickly – and chucks down half a glass of wine himself. 

“Couldn’t have asked in more broad terms?” he keeps his tone airy and light, but there’s still something tense in it. 

Eric smirks lopsided, shrugging his shoulders, as he looks at Daryl quickly before returning to look at Jesus, “I’m asking for a friend.”

At that point Aaron chokes into _his_ wine and coughs profusely before wheezing out an apology, and wiping his chin with his napkin, “Eric,” he mumbles warningly, quickly eyeing Daryl, who is now staring at Eric and Jesus one at a time, and finishing off a bite of the deer chili. There is something stunned in his expression, as if he feels he might have entered the Twilight Zone.

“I… I’m an open book,” he replies hesitantly, “You get what you see.”

Eric nods in an agreeing manner, and Aaron pours himself another glass full of wine and offers some for Daryl, who quite bluntly steals the whole bottle.

“I’m just… trying to hide my own shit with the self-sure mannerism of mine, and hoping that I’m not pissing on anyone’s bed while doing that,” Jesus then reveals, and chuckles tensely.

Daryl glowers at him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, much to Eric’s dismay.

“I can see that,” Eric nods, “Do you see it, Daryl?” 

Aaron rolls his eyes, and nudges Eric’s foot under the table, hoping to hell the love of his life will get the point and stop pairing the two together. Daryl scoffs, and downs another glass of wine.

“I’m… just trying to make it at the end of the world,” Jesus shrugs. 

And they all fall silent after that, for a while. That is until Aaron rolls his eyes, and mumbles what Daryl had established a while ago, that there isn’t enough bourbon in the Drunk Deer Chili and he’s going to need something stronger than just wine to get through the dinner. 

All three other men agree with appreciative groans. 

* * *

Daryl already knows what the green eyed man is going to ask, when Jesus sits down next to him on the stairs where he’s been sitting for two smokes worth after an _awkward_ dinner with Aaron and Eric. 

_Beth._

And when he asks, Daryl’s not nearly as grumpy to reply as he would have been if he hadn’t been expecting the question. He’s not sure, but he can make an educated guess as to how he found out about her, but then again he doesn’t really care. Not anymore. 

_“What happened to her?”_

So, he just sits there, next to Daryl and patiently waits for him to speak.

He’s supposed to answer, he knows that much. Talking about it might make him feel better, so that he wouldn’t have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore. And he’s supposed to give a satisfactory answer to Jesus about her.

Still, everything just feels like he’s forced to do something he doesn’t want to and the words come out strangled and breaking when he eventually finds the answer to Jesus’ question.

“I think - - I think I loved her. I think I did,” he breathes out, his hands trembling and his mouth going dry. He wrings his fingers, because he needs to distract himself from the emotional hurt. He tilts his head away from Jesus as his shoulders hunch, “I - - I didn’t know it be-before. I didn’t understand. But I did. Probably more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything.”

Jesus doesn’t say a word at first. He keeps quiet for a long while. 

Daryl doesn’t know if he wants there to be sounds; something to cover the sound of his heart thumbing and the swirling thoughts and scenarios in his mind, or if he’s appreciative at the silence instead of a lieu of questions of which he couldn’t ever give an answer to anyways.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” it comes out as soft drawl, each syllable carefully placed, almost as if expecting a blow of a fist as a reaction. But all Daryl does, is shrug his shoulders noncommittally. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the words, but he’s never seen the point in them. Undoing death isn’t in people’s hands. 

“I - - uh… I lost someone too,” Jesus starts, “But I suppose _they_ ,” he continues pointing his thumb over his shoulder, stabbing towards the house behind them, “already told you about him.”

Daryl is sure Aaron and Eric are hiding behind the blinds of the window and listening to their conversation. 

He has still not recovered from Eric playing a matchmaker all throughout the dinner, and there were a few moments he wanted to throw the entire bowl of the deer chili on his head. Against all that is his nature he wants to ask Jesus about whatever Eric was trying to pull on them, but he’s far too self-conscious to do so. So, he only looks at Jesus.

Daryl nods slowly, “Boyfriend.”

Jesus nods too, the corner of his mouth slightly tugging into a sad smile, “Yeah. Boyfriend. Or a former boyfriend. Alex.”

“Sorry,” Daryl whispers, because he doesn’t trust his voice right now. He didn’t trust his voice with Rick either when he had tried to talk to him about Beth. He’d talked to Maggie, but only because he wanted her to know how strong her sister was in the end. Because she was, and he didn’t even get to tell it to her, see her eyes shine at his words or feel her hug him again. 

Yeah, he did love her. Still.

Jesus shrugs at Daryl; there’s that same knowing look in his eyes as Daryl had a moment earlier. There isn’t much he can expect. Despite his namesake, he can’t raise people from the dead, even as much as he would want to. He’s quiet for a second or two, before he turns to look at Daryl, realizing something all of a sudden.

“So, you like girls, then?” 

Daryl frowns at first, his ears picking up the sad tone of Jesus’ voice; almost disappointed, and hearing his tone makes him squirm in his seat a little, before he processes the question itself. 

No one has ever asked him that; which is why he wasn’t expecting Jesus to ask that, which is also why it startles him to the bottom of his heart and makes him pull an inch away from Jesus. 

He is a damn Dixon, and growing up Dixon meant he wasn’t supposed to like anything but girls.

His father would have gladly beaten the last remnants of his life out of him if he had all of a sudden been caught with a boy – in any other form of activity other than him kicking the shit out of them. 

And yet, to be honest, Will Dixon never needed a reason like that to beat Daryl bloodied and raw. 

He had isolated himself from any kind of human contact from early on; the moment his mother went up with smoke and flames, the moment Merle walked out of that house and his father turned his belt and fists on him. 

There wasn’t anyone for the longest of time, until Merle returned, and dragged him into the life of less respectable deeds and practically thrown him into the awaiting arms of some strippers and drunken women, even hookers whom Merle promised their next fix of what ever drug they were on. Most of the time he didn’t even get to the second base with those women; they passed out in his car, or on their couch. 

And unlike Merle, Daryl didn’t feel like taking advantage of these women. And truthfully, none of those women ever interested him. He didn’t want to have sex with them. He sure as hell didn’t want to _fuck_ them.

 _He’s always been the sweet one, my baby brother._ That’s what Merle kept telling people about him anyways.

He definitely knew he wouldn’t do it with a crack whore or anyone resembling his family. He didn’t need that shit in his life again. He didn’t need humiliation and pain - - just someone _nice_. 

Beth. She definitely wasn’t anything like those women he’d gotten to know before. She’d been nice, kind, a good girl; someone a Dixon like him should have never even thought about. 

He knew now he had loved Beth; he’d loved her so fucking much, and he knows he’ll always blame himself for what happened to her. But was it - - was that about sex? He shakes his head again, and tries so hard to rearrange his thoughts. He’d been comfortable with her. It’d been peaceful, hopeful, loving, and she had not judged him. Not even when _he_ had judged himself. 

He loved almost all of the members of their group, men and women alike – his new and improved family – as much as he could. But he’d put most of them into a box inside of his head that didn’t include sex. And now that Aaron and Eric had made him think, he couldn’t stop. In all honesty, he would have been perfectly happy with Beth at the funeral home with or without sex. He could have seen himself with her, even if she was the type of girl who would have never looked at him twice without the end of the world.

So, when Jesus asks _that_ , Daryl stops fidgeting, he nearly stops breathing too, as he stares at the other man with eyes wide and blinking rapidly. 

He feels like his brain short circuits, because he can’t even form a perplexed noise indicating something of a confounded bewilderment. 

Did he like girls? Or boys? Both? No one?

He isn’t sure if he is sure it mattered who it was. 

_Someone nice_ , he thinks but isn’t able to say it out loud, _Someone like him._

“Daryl?”

“’dunno,” he mumbles hastily, startled by his own train of thoughts, and shrugs his shoulders noncommittally once more, and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing it fiercely, as he shuffles nervously where he sits. 

Jesus just nods, like he gets it. But there’s an essence of sadness about him now. He hangs his head, looking down at his boots like they are the most interesting thing in the world. Daryl looks down too, because he doesn’t know what to say. Somehow it’s like he has let Jesus down. 

There’s an ant scurrying past their boots, and the sun is still crawling slowly beyond the horizon, but the air is flicking and rippling above the pavement of the streets of the township, and it’s still too hot to think. Daryl’s hair hangs over his face, over his eyes. He can feel sweat pearling on his forehead, dripping down his cheeks. He grumbles, shifts and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

He considers it, telling Jesus that he knows what happened to his former boyfriend, but instead of doing that he says nothing and just sits there nervous and licking his dry lips few times. He can feel his heart thumping in his ears, and his stomach fluttering, something that hasn’t happened in ages. 

But as nervous and unsure Daryl is, Jesus is again a polar opposite. He leans back into the stairs, propping his elbows against the step behind him, and stretching his legs forward. As Jesus relaxes on the stairs, Daryl feels his own tension melting away. 

So there they sit in silence for another long while. 

_Someone nice_ , Daryl keeps thinking, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Jesus, although he’s been a smug bastard on occasion, has been nothing but kind to him. Like Rick, like Glenn, like Carol, like Hershel, like Beth, like Michonne, like Aaron and Eric. 

_He is nice._

And even as it’s already past awkward and even though Daryl prefers the quiet, and he’s almost certain that it’s the most fucked up thing for him to say now, he’s the one who surprisingly breaks the silence first. 

“’might like ya,” he murmurs softly, and turns his head enough to see Jesus’ eyes grow wider, and him shoot a look of surprise at Daryl.

* * *

Daryl stomps off almost immediately after that. Jesus doesn’t follow, because he knows Daryl needs his moment alone. He’s too shocked from Daryl’s answer, too, since the man isn’t exactly an open book to people he has trust issues with. He knows things got immensely more complicated at that surprise confession.

Daryl takes refuge at Aaron and Eric’s house, finishing the job with the gardening tools he dragged outside from the shed. He gets so many cuts on his hands Eric fears he’ll die of blood loss, and putters around him like a mother, cleaning up all of the cuts and bandaging them up, even after Daryl’s protests. 

Rick comes to visit him, trying to figure out what is going on, Daryl practically ignores the man, and grabs his jacket and crossbow and storms off to get his bike, leaving worried Aaron and Eric to fend for a very stunned Rick Grimes. He returns two days later with a buck and a bunch of rabbits strapped awkwardly on his bike. After he dumps the catch at the storage, he retreats back to the garden shed and finishes what he started with the gardening tools. 

As soon as those are as much fixed and sharpened as they can possibly be, Daryl moves into the garage and begins tinkering away with his bike. It doesn’t need any repairing or tune ups or even an oil change but he’s just not ready to face anyone, let alone face Jesus. 

He keeps fleeing from the light haired man when ever he sees him approaching, and avoiding him by any means necessary all the time, even going so far as to grab Aaron and dragging him onto an idiotic, unplanned and unscheduled fishing expedition. They do manage to get a lot of fish. 

He’s too embarrassed, and he’s even more humiliated that he went on and admitted something like that to Jesus of all people. He keeps having his father, and Merle, laughing at him in his mind, and along with the dream that seems to be stuck on a loop there too, he’s almost certain this is just one of the Universe’s cruel jokes on the Dixons.

He’s too busy feeling humiliated that he fails to notice that no one in this township is treating him any differently, aside from running the hell away from the foul mood that seems to surround him currently. 

* * *

He continues to blame himself for being stupid. He blames himself for opening up as much as he had, and most importantly he scolds himself for telling Jesus that he might actually like the guy. 

He effectively ignores everything that happened that night. He reasons with himself that it was because of the wine they’d had at the dinner. He ignores the fact that he’s able to drink moonshine without passing out and he’s not unfamiliar with most of the home brewed shit there’s been around for ages. 

He knows Aaron and Eric heard them, but continues to refuse to talk to them, whenever they bring up the issue, instead of growling at them like a bear shot in the ass, which makes him more grumpy than usually, and eager to avoid both of them. He also keeps avoiding Jesus at all costs. 

He keeps up with his duties, taking more liberties than he’d normally would, and refuses to be present at any of the meetings; instead happily agreeing to take as many patrolling and guard shifts alone as humanly possible. He even chases the shift change from the outpost and opts to spend nearly four days there alone. 

It’s easier for him to deny the whole situation by pretending it’s not real, and tune out every single person that tries to talk to him.

* * *

“You’re in luck. He’s back, and he’s in the garage, Paul,” Aaron explains, smiling, when the light haired man comes to their house looking for the grumpy archer after a week of failed attempts in order to talk to him.

“What’s he doing?” he asks, frowning a little bit at Aaron’s words at first. He keeps chewing the inside of his cheek, crossing his arms to his chest, and glances quickly at the direction of the garage door.

Aaron shrugs at first noncommittally, but then sighs deep and struggles to find the right words, “I - - I don’t actually know anymore. He “fixed” his bike for a while, he sharpened and repaired all the tools in our shed, he fixed a broken towel rack and as of last night started a weird project with Eric in the spare bedroom, where I’m not allowed in,” he explains, truthfully.

“Oh?” Jesus squeaks surprised, “What do you mean ‘you’re not allowed in’?”

“Eric seems to have roped our Grumpy Friend into making me a present,” Aaron grins as he replies the question, and even wiggles his eyebrows.

“Right.”

“So, you’re here to talk to him?”

“If he’ll listen,” he nods at Aaron. 

“As long as you’re not here to toy with him, then, by all means,” Aaron nods too, and gestures towards the garage and Jesus wanders slowly to the door, taking a moment to gather himself before pushing it open.

“Daryl?” 

“What’re ya doin’ here?” comes a gruff reply from Daryl, as he circles around the bike with a wrench his hand, not even bothering to look at Jesus.

“Daryl, don’t you think we should - - talk?” he asks, Daryl’s gruff demeanor making him abandon all the sensitive ways he planned on talking to him in order to get him to talk.

“No.”

Jesus sighs, bringing his hand to his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose, as he grits his teeth together, while counting back from ten. When he reaches ‘one’ he looks up at Daryl, kneeling down beside his bike and shuffles few steps closer to the man.

“I get it, man. You had a rough childhood. I’m sure your father never won any ‘Father of the Year’ awards, but don’t you - -,” he starts rambling inanely, before Daryl stands up. He’s only slightly taller than Jesus himself, but at that moment he seems to tower taller as he glares down at him.

“So, now ya think ya fuckin’ know me?” Daryl honest to God growls, his eyes flaming with anger, “Feelin’ sorry for me?” 

“No, Daryl, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jesus replies, shaking his head, “And I think you know it, too.”

“Jus’ because they tell ya shit about me, doesn’t mean you know me!” the archer throws the wrench from his hands, and reaches for the red rag from his pocket and wipes his hands quickly. He’s dangerously quiet, when he inclines closer to Jesus, close enough for him to feel his breath on his skin, as he hisses, “I don’t need any pity from ya.”

And with a turning of his back, he goes to rummage through the screwdrivers, bolts and nails at the work bench, refusing to pay anymore attention to Jesus. He’s not talking to him anymore, and even if Jesus wants to grab his shoulders, and shake him until he’s shed all of the bad things that have happened to him in the past, he still knows he can’t force Daryl to talk.

“I’m not feeling sorry for you, Daryl. I just think you deserve to be happy too,” Jesus sighs, before he exits the garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beth was an intricate part of Daryl's life, a fact that you can't change. Now, you can say she didn't exist, or she wasn't anything to Daryl, or that it was just like a brother-sister bond they had, or that he took care of her out of obligation - out of debt to Hershel; what ever rocks your boat! Daryl and Beth rock mine. 
> 
> Unfortunately her death is written into this fic, despite I loathe the way they decided to handle her death.


	6. We Are Still Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They keep on circling each other like two angry cats, day in and day out.

Just like Aaron said, both of the men keep on circling each other like two angry cats, day in and day out. He’s completely and utterly done with the man. And with himself.

Daryl doesn’t speak to him; and every time Jesus so much as _tries_ he ignores him completely. He even goes as far as to move out from the Grimes’ house, because Jesus occupies that one room next to his. 

Now, of course, he doesn’t tell anyone that he packed his shit and moved out. He doesn’t even bother to let Aaron and Eric know that they now have a new roommate!

At least, not until Aaron nearly has a heart attack one morning as he stumbles onto the legs of snoring Daryl Dixon in their garage where the hunter has made a camp of sorts. Aaron is a trembling mess of nerves when Daryl clambers up and rubs sleep off his eyes, and watches Aaron clutch his chest in his robe, hair disarray and wearing only one slipper. 

“D-Daryl, w-what are you doing?!” he asks, just as Eric runs over with a spatula, ready to defend Aaron from a possible freak walker in their house. 

“Fell asleep,” Daryl grumbles, shaking his head, before he stretches, his joints popping and cracking. He tries to play in nonchalantly, like it’s a normal thing to happen to him, running his fingers quickly through his disheveled hair, and picks up a wrench, which he twirls slowly in his fingers.

“Have you been sleeping here?” Eric inquires incredulously, as his gaze sweeps over the garage and the roll that seems to be a sleeping bag and something dirty and gritty that might be a small rug or a blanket.

“Jus’ few nights,” Daryl shrugs his shoulders, “Don’t wanna run into Jerk,” he adds tilting his head. Jerk has become the new name for Jesus, in Daryl’s mind. 

“What happened, Daryl, really? You two were talking and being friendly! And now you’re just like water and oil again!” Aaron whines, fishing his slipper – the one he nearly kicked through a wall, mind you – from the floor and hopping on one foot as he fits it back on.

“What’s it to you?”

Eric rolls his eyes, trying not to smirk, while Aaron can only sigh deep. 

They don’t mind Daryl hanging around their house. Not even when he’s been there for several days straight. And had he said anything to them about it, they would have given him a choice from the rooms they have for picking in a heart beat. 

And truthfully, if he’s in their house, they can at least see to it that he’s not starving himself, or walking around in dirty clothes, or sleeping on the cold floor of their garage. They aren’t stupid either; even if he’s off limits for touching, Daryl’s a pleasing sight to watch. But sometimes, just _sometimes_ , Aaron doesn’t understand how the man can be so infuriating that he even ticks off Eric, who in his mind is the natural embodiment of calmness and kindness. 

Aaron feels like this situation is getting out of hand and they need to start mending the rift – wherever it came from – between Daryl and Jesus.

“No, really, Daryl,” Aaron says, “What the hell happened?”

He doesn’t get an answer, not that he was expecting one. So, instead he sighs, and ushers Daryl inside and tells him that he can stay in their guest bedroom for as long as he wants. 

“Better than the cold floor, Daryl,” he says and is agreed with by Eric. 

* * *

After a fairly long and inevitably miserable autumn comes a crisp and freezing winter. They struggle to meet up with their own quota of daily rations, and they struggle even more with getting enough for the Saviors. 

Daryl spends most of the daylight hours either at their outpost or in the woods tracking down deer, and mostly bringing in rabbits and squirrel from the snares he’s set up. Even when Aaron or Rick offers to go with him, he always declines the offer, and goes alone, explaining how the two men would just be too damn noisy when he needs to be quiet to catch a deer. 

Unfortunately, the bolts of his crossbow have seen better days, and despite his aim is still true, the catch has lately dwindled into smaller game. He’s come home with more broken arrows than whole ones. Trying to make new ones from dead, frozen wood is out of the question, which has mostly forced him to settle with the snares, at least, until he has defrosted some of the branches and dried them inside the house.

Jesus remembers hearing that as he stares at the package of crossbow bolts in a sporting goods aisle in the store Heath, Tara and he broke into earlier. It’s been looted twice over, but they are sure they can find something useful and even if they can’t, they can feed the shit to the Saviors; at least, that’s their plan. 

He’s never even fired a regular, simple bow or a recurve bow, let alone a compound bow, so he doesn’t know if these bolts are good or not, or if they even fit for the _crossbow_ Daryl has. And in addition to the situation at hand, Daryl is still not talking to him, so he doesn’t quite get why the hell is he so determined to get these be they good or not.

It makes him huff, and squeeze his fingers into a fist, shuffling a little in his place. He feels nervous and totally out of his game. 

He’s had a plenty of relationships. And just because he’s never been a particularly squeamish type to back out of something that comes naturally to him, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own insecurities. But, those people he had been before were far less difficult to understand than Daryl is. And yet, he seems to only want to solve the puzzle that is Daryl, and see where it could lead to.

“What are you doing?” 

Tara’s voice startles him from his peculiar chain of thoughts, as he turns to look at the dark haired woman, staring at him frustrated, palms on her hips. She receives only a shrug as a reply, which in a way frustrates her even more, and she turns to leave, mumbling something about fucking indecisive men and their dick egos. 

He actually chuckles at that for a second, before he goes back to staring at the packet of bolts, wondering if he should take them or not. At least until Michonne’s know-it-all smirk in his memory makes it dawn on him. 

And just like Daryl has been in cahoots with Aaron and Eric – in his mind – he’s been talking to Michonne and Rick and pouring his miserable heart out at them. 

The Samurai woman quite literally laughed at his face and told him to find his balls before he tried anything with Daryl; but then adding that he shouldn’t try with eloquence and allegories, because Daryl is a straight forward kind of a guy and doesn’t do with innuendo. 

Whereas Rick was less blunt with him, and told Jesus how Daryl didn’t need to be toyed with. 

He would never do that. He knows that for sure. But he’s currently unequivocally confused about the situation. 

In the end he doesn’t leave the bolts into the store. He knows they’ll come in handy nevertheless. He picks them up in a flash of stubborn indignation and stuffs them into his pack, moving forward to find if there’s anything else they might need in that particular section of the store.

* * *

He stares at Rick bewildered, trying to figure out his options. He’s ready to kick this jackass of a brother in front of him into the next decade if he keeps going on with this plan of action. He glares at Michonne too, who sits innocently enough at the table, going through the plans for the expansion for the vegetable garden and the fields, while Judith plays on the floor with some coloring pens and paper. 

He’s not sure where the hell Carl is but if he was here, he’d be glaring at him too.

“Ya kiddin’ me, right?” 

“We don’t really have any other choice in this, Daryl,” Rick sighs. Delivering goods to a bunch of schmucks isn’t something he wants to do but doing that with a person he doesn’t want to have anything to do with – that would just be torture. And yet, it’s not something any of them likes, but at the very moment they have to work with what they are dealt with. 

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere with that asshole!” he growls, clenching his fingers into a tight fist, practically vibrating with anger, before he steps aside, flicking his hand in the air at Rick.

“Daryl, language,” Michonne chides, as she nods her head meaningfully at Judith. 

The child is shaking her coloring pen in her hand, and giggling at the sight of Daryl. He softens his expression for a second at the girl, before he returns to stare at Rick and Michonne, who’s mouth is now a tight line, trying not to laugh out loud.

“Pfft!” Daryl scoffs, “Ain’t going.”

“We can’t spare anyone else.”

It’s a desperate moment of anger and sudden feeling of humiliation bubbling underneath the surface as Daryl looks at Rick, but this time more pleading than before. His eyes dart from Michonne to Rick and back to Michonne and Judith, all the while he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I’ll go alone. I can do it. It’s fine,” he says, wincing, not because he is afraid of the douche bags, but because he already knows Rick is not going to allow that to happen. But he’d rather fight with Rick than sit in the car with Jesus for the two-hour drive to the delivery point.

“We don’t go anywhere alone anymore, Daryl,” Rick sighs, brushing his hair back from his face, and then scratching his graying beard, “I can’t let you go alone, you know that, brother.”

“Been out there alone before,” Daryl argues, crossing his arms to his chest, determined to get out of this. 

In all honesty, it’s a good rule, but hasn’t really been applied to Daryl. He has hunted alone all this time, and he’s been volunteering at their outpost of theirs on his own, and he knows he can take care of himself. He knows Rick knows this too. Until now.

“I’m not taking any chances. I don’t trust them, and I don’t want them to…,” Rick sighs, leaving his thoughts in the air. Daryl gets the gist though. He watches Rick rubbing his temples and groaning out loud. Even Daryl is getting a damn headache over this.

“Ain’t nothin’ they can throw at me. Been through worse,” Daryl hisses, narrowing his eyes. It’s not really true, and even Daryl knows it. He still has a pretty good picture in his mind what these jerk-offs could do to a person. And he’s seen first hand what they have done; he can still hear the barb-wired baseball bat hitting skull, he can still hear the screams and see the blood everywhere.

“Anyone but him,” Daryl groans in a less than dignified manner. 

“There’s no one else.”

 

* * * 

Rick has a chat with Jesus before they wheel off. He doesn’t want to do it, but he doesn’t want to make Daryl anymore uncomfortable than he already is. And something about Jesus just rubs him the wrong way, even though they got along a little bit better a while ago. 

“Yeah, he doesn’t wanna go with you, but there’s no one else,” Rick agrees when Jesus asks him if Daryl was against the whole thing. 

The light haired man sighs, scratching his beard with a look of pleasure on his face, and then saunters slowly to the window of the Grimes’ house. He looks at the scruffy looking archer by the car, pouring precious gasoline into the tank, accompanied by Eric chitchatting his ears off. 

“He doesn’t wanna go with me. So, I don’t understand why I’m going with him.”

“Because you two got to get along,” the former Deputy sighs, his thumbs hooking under the belt, “I need you two to get along. I need you two to trust each other.”

“He’s made it pretty clear he - -,” Jesus sighs, leaning against the wall next to the window. 

“What _really_ happened with you two, Paul?”

“I pushed him. Too hard it would seem. He’s not ready. So, he just - - changed his mind,” Jesus shrugs his shoulders, looking completely lost inside as he gives Rick a glance.

“I don’t understand,” Rick frowns, looking at him steadily.

“I - - I don’t understand it either. I just _know_ I have feelings for him, and I doubt they’ll be going away anytime soon.”

Rick looks at him, and Jesus can feel him judging, weighing the options, weighing him. 

“Daryl doesn’t play mind games. Give it time.”

Hearing Rick say something he has already known makes him shudder, and then shake his head. He wrenches his fingers together, trying to gather his thoughts, staring at the floor with no particular interest in doing so. 

He knows he has feelings for Daryl. He knows he wants to act upon them. But he wasn’t going to do anything that would make Daryl uncomfortable. 

“Time…,” he mumbles, “It might be too much for him to bear.”

* * * 

Delivering the demanded goods and supplies is the least favorite thing for all of the residents. Meeting with the Saviors and their overall smug attitude drives Daryl up the wall every time, and he doesn’t understand how the fuck can he control himself from killing every single one of those bastards when they show up and take their stuff just like that. 

“Lazy fuckers,” Daryl growls when Jesus starts the car and they drive off, glaring at the side mirrors and the rearview mirror at the men packing up the stuff in a large van. 

“It’s a dog eat dog world,” Jesus mumbles an unnecessary reply. 

He’s been surprisingly quiet and docile with Daryl the whole day, which obviously makes Daryl feel slightly nervous and off kilter, but he doesn’t say anything. These are more or less the first words the two have uttered the whole day.

Darkness falls quickly around them after the sun falls beyond the tree line and horizon. There’s nothing more than the sound of the engine and the wheels buzzing against the cracked asphalt of the road, with an occasional squelching sound when a legless walker is run over. 

Daryl feels nervous and his leg bounces incessantly against the door of the old car, as he keeps nibbling his thumbnail, and trying to focus on anything abut the fact that he’s alone in the car with Jesus. His mind is wrapped with the conversation at the stairs, and he keeps chiding himself for what he said to the light haired man. 

So, they sit in silence for the next two hours before they get back in Alexandria. The awkwardness is still tangible when Jesus parks the car inside the fence and kills the engine. Daryl leans his right elbow onto his right knee, his fingers touching lightly his mouth, but he doesn’t move to leave. 

Jesus pulls his hat off, and ruffles his hair with his hands, before he glances at Daryl. His eyes glide over the tense body, noticing the left hand clutching the handle of his buck knife, muscles rippling on his arms and his hair falling down onto his face.

The archer says nothing, even though he notices Jesus staring at him immediately. They sit like that, for five or ten minutes, until Jesus clears his throat and turns to look at Daryl. The archer chews his bottom lip, nostrils flaring, clearly straining to be civil, not to scream at him. 

“Look, I’m leaving,” he says, voice as colorless as the sky, “So, you don’t really have to worry about it anymore.”

“The fuck?”

“I’ll go back to Hilltop. I’ll make sure Hayes will be liaising between Alexandria and Hilltop from now on,” Jesus smiles sadly, as he picks the steering wheel idly.

“Why?”

“I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the weakest chapter, but it had to be done.


	7. We Are Still Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl delves into his memories aided by booze. And then there's Jesus, at the end of the hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter includes homophobic language, child abuse and graphic depictions of violence! Courtesy of none other than Will Dixon.
> 
> Proceed carefully, if either is a trigger for you or they squick you out.

Four days later he’s drunk. He finished just few hours earlier that stupid fucking walk-in closet – a present for Aaron from Eric, and is now nursing the cuts and scrapes on his hands. 

He found a still full bottle of Jack Daniels in a small closet of a non-descriptive store that was otherwise raided empty, which just made him entertain himself with it in his room alone. Half of it’s already gone, as he sits on the floor, and scoffs at his own stupidity. What the fuck he had been thinking telling Jesus that he _‘might like him’_ bullshit? But that was it, wasn’t it? He did like the guy, and he knew Jesus wasn’t a bad person. 

So, here he is, drunk and feeling like shit for being a dick.

 _“Ain’t nobody gonna care about ya like me, lil’ brudder,”_ Merle’s voice keeps playing in his ears, _“Them ain’t no blood, them ain’t no kin!”_

But hadn’t they all said to him time and time again that he was an important and valued member of the group? 

_“Them gonna use you, lil’ brudder. It’s ya life or theirs,”_ Merle reminds him. 

It was true in a way. 

Rick _had needed_ him and he’d given everything he had. 

He is a survivor. He knows how to fend for himself in the wild. He has more skills in living outside, in the woods, than any of these people, and he had used those skills to help them.

Of course, that had not been the original plan. Merle had wanted to rob the quarry camp blind for their canned food, weapons and gasoline, and he had followed his big brother’s agenda equally blindly. Merle’s disappearance had left him aimless, twisting in the wind like an old abandoned kite. 

He had been so angry at the situation. He had hated everyone’s guts and then some.

But despite the way he was raised, and the way he had been forced to lead his life up until that point, he had never been selfish or hateful. He had been forced to adapt to the situation because he’d had no other choice, but that had only brought out the good in him. And slowly Rick had started to trust him, and ask for _his_ help, his input. 

And, he had helped. He’d done everything imaginable for this group because he had wanted to, and he had – God forbid – felt good doing so. 

He had helped Rick and T-Dog to save Glenn and he’d fought alongside the rest of the group when the walkers had attacked the quarry camp. He’d stepped up when T-Dog had gotten himself cut and offered antibiotics from Merle’s stash. He’d nearly gotten himself killed while trying to find Sophia. 

He’d helped steer the group at the prison when Rick had been too distracted by his grief and instability to do so and he had risked his life to save a bunch of people from an infection spreading through the prison. He had hunted for the group long before they even cared if he ever came back at the camp, or at the farm. He’d taught Beth to track, shoot with a crossbow that quite possibly weighed more than she did. He’d done all that and much more.

His thumb presses against the mouth of the bottle, as he tilts it a little, to see how much of that golden brown liquid is still inside of it. 

_“No son o’ mine ain’t gonna be no faggot!”_ Will Dixon’s booming voice echoes in Daryl’s mind as he tilts the bottle, bringing it to his lips. The liquid pours in his mouth, burning his tongue and throat as he swallows it quickly, but not before a few droplets of whiskey dribble down his chin. He doesn’t bother wiping it off. There’s really no point.

His father. Drunken piece of shit. It shouldn’t be such a surprise to him that both him and Merle had inherited Will Dixon’s attitude when drunk. 

_“’might like ya.”_

His head snaps up quickly, and he eyes around himself as the thought still lingers in his mind. The shadows in the corners of his room make him flinch, and the sounds echoing from outside make his stomach knot. 

_“’might like ya.”_

He shudders from a cold feeling that takes over his body all of a sudden, and he shakes his head, before he takes another mouthful of the Jack Daniels. It burns on its way down making him cough a few times. 

_“’might like ya.”_

It’s like his father knew exactly what he had said to Jesus, and had crawled out of hell just to torment him again; beat him for saying something like that out loud. 

_“Ya ain’t nothing but a waste o’ space! Can’t even get ya prick wet properly! Wanna get ya ass reamed by a big cock, lil’ faggot?! I bet ya do! Disgustin’ little shit!”_

The girl he had been talking to had ran away. His father had pulled him in his truck, and driven back to their home, where he had taken a beating over that; over and over again. He had been ten, the girl had been a year younger. 

That was the first time he’d gotten in trouble at school. She’d told her parents, and Daryl had been removed from her class like it had been _his_ fault. It also had marked the first time when he’d lost the faith in adults. 

He drinks again, and shoves the bottle aside, half of the whiskey already gone. 

Daryl reaches for the skin magazines next to him he had shoved into his backpack after the bottle of whiskey. He scoffs unbelieving that this is something that he’s stooped down to.

Opening the first one he glares at the scantily clad women who with each turn of pages get more and more obscene. The women are primped and primed and the pictures make them look like plastic. Perfect living dolls, a fantasy. He groans in slight irritation, tossing the magazine onto the floor, and brings the bottle onto his lips again, taking a deep and long swig from it. The other magazine doesn’t do much for him either. He doesn’t get the glistening and muscled men on the pages, or the pretty flighty boys cuddling with big, burly men. 

Neither. He doesn’t like neither. 

Yet, there’s a slight, but pleasant throb in his jeans, and he readjusts his jeans and legs. He’s not a goddamned monk. But he doesn’t like fake people or liars. 

Daryl sniffles and wets his lips, before he throws the other magazine away, deciding it’s all just garbage. 

_“Should’a drowned ya the minute that bitch of a woman whelped ya!”_

He actually tried it several times. Daryl can still remember how he was told to pick up a damn beer can from the cooler that was filled with ice, and his father, drunk and high, shoved his face into the water and ice. He remembers how he laughed at the feeble attempts of his to pull back out again. He was certain he’d drown until Merle stormed onto the scene and introduced his fist to the old man’s face. Merle was the one that took a beating that day, while Daryl ran into the woods coughing water from his lungs. He got bronchitis following that incident. It was the only time he spent any time at the hospital and got treated, mostly because of Merle. He was eleven.

_“Stop squealin’ ya lil’ pig!”_

It was after Will Dixon was introduced to meth. He got more violent and turned all of his anger towards Daryl. His arms still itch and burn when he remembers the times his father snuffed a cigarette on his skin. He was twelve.

He also remembers all four times in his life he’s resorted into doing it to himself; when his mother had died, when his uncle and consequently his father too had died, when Merle had died, and last but not least, when Beth had been killed. 

He isn’t proud of it, but somehow it always had helped him. It was his catharsis, and his forgiveness. 

_“What're ya doin', ya good fer nothin' pussy!”_

He can still feel the lashes of his father’s belt licking his back with the burning pain in its wake. He can still feel his skin parting like the waters of the Red Sea in the damn Bible, and the warm gush of blood running down. He was thirteen. 

If it hadn’t been for his Uncle Jess, he’d probably have died from blood loss three times over. He spent two weeks with Uncle Jess, away from his drunk out of his mind father, until Will Dixon stomped over and dragged him back to the hovel that was their house. 

After that he hadn’t really found any comfort in closeness. 

So what the fuck had instigated him telling that jerk that he might actually like him in the first place? 

He should be glad that Jesus is gone.

He should. But he’s far from it. 

His damn mind keeps conjuring dreams that make him wake up gasping for breath, and covered with sweat. He has woken up already too many times screaming and scaring Aaron and Eric nearly mindless with worry. Subjects of his nightmares are just always the people he cares deeply about and Jesus _is_ one of them.

So, he definitely should be glad that he’ll leave and he doesn’t have to worry about him creeping around him, or surprising him all of a sudden. 

He should. But he is not.

* * * 

In his hangover haze Daryl stomps down the stairs sluggishly. Aaron and Eric both call out their good mornings at him, but he ignores their cheery attitude. 

“Don’t you want breakfast, Daryl?” Eric asks, lifting his plate up from the table and tilting it so Daryl can see the fried mushrooms and onions, powdered eggs, tuna and something green, with a bread slice on the side on his plate. He growls while sneering, making his exit and adjusting his crossbow over his shoulder, declining the offered breakfast.

On his way to the garage he sees Jesus packing some of his shit in a car they barely got up and running two days earlier. He is suddenly overcome by the urge to shoot an arrow through the engine of the car and see if it runs after that. He actually stops, and tilts his head, while chewing the inside of his cheek, and trying to convince himself that it is an idiotic idea. 

As soon as Jesus notices him looking, he averts his eyes quickly and hurries over to his bike, scoffing at the theatrics of this douche nozzle. If the bastard wants to leave, then why the fuck won’t he just leave? 

Straddling his bike he pops his sunglasses on, and starts his engine. 

“Daryl, can we talk?” Rick appears to his side holding the giddy Judith reaching her chubby arms at Daryl and showing off the new toy someone’s brought to her. 

“No.”

Rick’s left in the wake of his dust when he speeds off, past Jesus and three or four of the Alexandrians helping him pack the car. Their eyes meet for a second, and there’s a slight hurt look on his face, but Daryl can’t be bothered by it at that moment. He wants to get out of the damn town and into the woods, and he wants to bag himself a buck and enjoy the hunt. 

He stops long enough for Spencer and Eugene to open the double gate, before he hits the road and feels the tremble of the bike underneath him, and the wind in his hair. 

Driving down the road for what feels like hours he finally stops by a small creek, climbs off the bike. He looks both ways on the road glad to see it’s otherwise deserted save for some birds darting up and down from what seems to be a road kill further away. 

He peels off his leather jacket, sunglasses, and gloves and tucks them safely in the saddle bag, and loops the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder, as he begins to push the bike into a small ditch at the side of the road. Quickly hiding the damn thing by pulling branches and leaves and some dry grass over it, he can only hope that it’s still going be there when he’ll be back. He doesn’t expect to find a deer just like that but he’s got no provisions or water with him. Not that he’s ever really needed them. He’s managed to survive with far less than that.

He scurries into the woods, carefully picking places where to set his feet. He doesn’t want to leave a trace that might be too easy to follow by anyone. 

About 300 feet into the woods he spots the first signs of deer activity and shifts his direction accordingly. Fewmets, deer droppings, and broken branches, trampled grass - - he follows the trail silently. For once his mind is clear and empty from all of the clutter he’s managed to gather inside and there’s nothing more than him and the target. 

_“Sorry for running into you.”_

Daryl spins around gasping out loud. It’s almost as someone had said it right next to him. 

“Fuckin’ mind games,” he grumbles, eyeing at the shrubbery around him, expecting the green eyed demon of his to jump out of the bushes and laugh at him.

He tries to concentrate yet again on the tracks of the deer, looking for any indication that they might be close.

_“Paul Rovia. But my friends used to call me Jesus.”_

He kneels down onto the ground, shifting some of the dead leaves off the path and smirking to himself as he spots an indentation of a hoof print. 

Why had he talked to the man in the first place? He should have trusted his gut on this guy. The little shit had stolen the car keys. If his father was still alive - - no, but that’s the thing, he wasn’t! And Daryl was free to do what ever he wanted. 

_“Do you even have any ammo?”_

He stands up again, and looks around before heading towards the direction the hoof prints suggest the deer has walked. The prints are recent, and it’s not long before he finds more tracks, and more signs of deer in the area. 

His eyes.

He still remembers those eyes. All of the occasions after that - - Jesus had sought out his eyes. 

_“You're gonna leave me here like this?”_

“Fuck yes, I will!” he snaps out loud, scaring some small birds into a flight from the bushes. 

He sighs, schooling himself under his ever present control again, and shifts his crossbow in his hands, propping the butt of the handle against his shoulder. The deer are close and he’s going to bag him one. 

He enters a small clearing, tall grass weaving in the wind, and insects buzzing above the reeds. At the far end of the small patch of grass, he sees them; four bucks grazing in the grass, heads down in the grass before they return to eye their surroundings, ears flopping, chasing off flies and other nuisance, and shifting as they listen to sounds that might scare them. 

Daryl stops, his eyes training on to the buck closest to him. It’s not a very big one, possibly just some 180 pounds, but it would do just nicely. He grins, taking few steps closer to the animals, carefully setting his feet onto the ground, avoiding anything that might set off a sound to scare the deer away.

He can hear his breathing in his ears, while keeping an eye on the deer and one on the ground. He gets close enough, hiding behind a tree, and settling himself in a better position, the arrow of his crossbow trained on the animal. 

_“Duck!”_

He shakes his head, and glances around, just in case. There are no walkers, no Saviors, no other people, nothing but trees and the wind. The wind, that blows now from behind him, right towards the deer. Swiveling to look at them, he sees them all standing tall and still, ears pointy and shifting, looking at his direction. 

He closes his eyes, breathes deep, opening his eyes and taking aim. And then, he fires.

* * * 

Daryl’s dressing the damn 210 pound buck, as it turned out to be, when Jesus ambles over carrying a backpack. He glances at the man in the beanie, but says nothing. Neither does Jesus. Instead, he just watches as Daryl’s knife slices through the skin of the deer’s stomach, his dexterous hands bloodied up to his wrists. 

The deer’s legs are roughly tied spread eagle and Jesus’ gaze follows the dirty rope down onto the legs of the table. 

“Need somethin’?” Daryl asks, stabbing his knife onto the wooden surface of the table as he begins to pry open the stomach.

“Can we talk?”

Jesus’ question scares himself along with Daryl who can barely nod as a half-hearted reply. 

The canopy above them flutters in the wind, and Daryl cracks open the sternum of the deer, as Jesus steps closer, sliding his backpack down from his shoulder. 

“Bagged yourself a deer. Good job, buddy,” Jesus says, trying to be flippant about it, crossing his arms to his chest, nodding and staring at the buck with its guts hanging out. 

He has to muster up enough courage to look up into Jesus’ eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek, his hands pulling out the lungs of the deer at the same time. Suddenly Daryl feels like he’s dangling on the edge, trudging over into a new territory he’s never been before. 

“So, ya goin’ back at Hilltop?” 

He’s honestly pleased with himself when he sees Jesus startle at the question. 

“Y-Yeah… I – uh – I’m gonna go there, see if I can still be useful, and - -,” he stammers, explaining sloppily. He pulls his hat off, staring at it instead of Daryl, as he ruffles his hair, trying to make some semblance of them.

“Right,” Daryl nods, “Are you gonna come back?” Another question makes Daryl mentally kick himself, but truthfully his heart is beating 160 miles per hour as he tries not to screw this up anymore than he already has. It’s still Jesus who wants to talk and he wants to play it out, to see what he wants. 

Jesus turns to look up at Daryl for the first time, but with an incredulous gleam in his gaze, his hair a shaggy mess, falling in front of his eyes. He really wants to tell him to fuck off, that he’s never coming back to this place, but looking at _the Grumpy Grab Ass of Alexandria_ and his cheeks tinted with a light pink hue now, he can’t. 

“Uh… yeah, I mean, I just… wanted to give you space or something,” he stammers, “I told you – _I promised you_ – I wouldn’t ask questions until you trust me.”

Daryl scoffs as he shoves his hands back inside the deer, pulling out the other intestines of the animal and throws them on the ground in a wet splash. Blood splatters around the clump of bloody mess, and the intestines slide, spreading around. 

Jesus sneers at the sight, but Daryl walks over the guts like they aren’t even there, squelching sound disgusting underneath his boot. The blood spreads onto the otherwise pristine cement, gliding into the little nooks on the surface. 

“Ya wanted to talk, man,” Daryl complains, startling Jesus out of his observation of the blood and guts. 

“Umm… Yeah. I guess I just wanted to tell you goodbye, then,” he starts, frowning a little, “I mean, I wanted to talk to you, about that - - _thing_ , but since you don’t… I’m just going to…” he stammers, not quite finding the right words.

He’s not used to this. He’s never had to walk on eggshells when it comes to a possible romantic involvement with someone. But Daryl’s different. He’s not to be toyed with, and he’s slowly starting to realize just how much honesty and respect he has for the man for being who he is.

“Pfft,” Daryl scoffs as a reply, but he doesn’t growl, or glower at him. And then, there’s suddenly a faint expression of hope and delight on his face, as the corner of his lip tugs up in a half a smirk.

“The fuck ya smirkin’ about?” Daryl snaps quickly, and Jesus manages to school his face back to neutral, normal. He shakes his head, the corners of his lips still tugging up, as gives Daryl a thumbs up, instead of a vocal reply. 

“Jerk,” he growls, returning to the task at hand with the deer. He picks up his knife again and starts to slice into the flesh skilfully, like he’s done a million times before, but not while his concentration is distracted heavily by the presence of someone he’s still unsure of and someone who then steps closer to him and says his name out loud with more warmth than he’s ever heard anyone else say. 

“Daryl,” Jesus mumbles, deciding to take a fucking chance at this even if it means the archer will gut him for it. He reaches over; placing his hand over the bloody wrist of Daryl’s and stills the man’s jerky motions with cutting through the tendons and muscles of the animal on the table. 

He stops, the knife in his hand still dripping with blood, but he does stop, and lifts his head to meet the gaze of the light haired man. 

“Daryl, about what you said, before,” he starts after a moment of silence, “I just might like you back.”

In all honestly Daryl does not expect to hear that from Jesus, but he does and he takes it – the good and the bad of that situation. He takes it and turns around, perching on the table, the hoof of the deer pressing painfully into his back, but he doesn’t dare move as he looks at Jesus.

He keeps looking at the other man, and he returns the gaze, still clutching onto his wrist, and despite it’s fucking awkward, with buzzing flies intrigued by the deer carcass, and the hoof poking against Daryl’s back, and Jesus standing there in a pool of intestines, it’s still more comfortable all of a sudden than Daryl’s ever felt. With a man, with a person, and well knowing that he has feelings that are met with equality. 

“So, now what?”

Jesus winces, looks at Daryl, and chuckles slightly awkwardly, “Um… Look, I gotta take care of this shit,” he says, poking a thumb towards his backpack, “Since I don’t think I’ll be leaving. But if you want to, we could, maybe talk after that?”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got into the good stuffs. Even if I say so myself.


	8. We Are Still Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touches and kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the Pillow Witch and the Art Goddess! :D
> 
> And special mention goes to Walnut, because she loves the glass scene.

At first, it’s not easy, communicating. 

It’s abrasive even, because Daryl doesn’t know how to _really_ feel or react to Jesus, his presence at the Aaron and Eric’s house or his presence anywhere near him. That leads to him reacting by fighting with him about every single thing. Daryl has never been, and still isn’t a talker, so naturally there are hitches, thousand and one fucking frustrating moments and incidents, but they still manage to get through them, somehow.

As it happens, they both soon become all about touches. If anything, it was the touches that remained constant, and steady, something to hold onto when everything else about their lives seemed to be in an uproar. 

Paul – that’s how Daryl calls him when they are in private because it’s more intimate in a way – keeps staying patient with him, even when he finds out about the fucking mess that was his past. It surprises Daryl to no end when he realizes that Jesus didn’t even care about the cluttered fucking mess of a junkyard that his mind sometimes seemed to be. But it takes Jesus a _lot_ of patience of a saint and kindness to coax Daryl to speak, to tell him _how_ his mind works, what he thinks about their situation. Jesus’ impeccable sense of goodness in people doesn’t fail on Daryl’s case, he slowly pulls out the details about his sordid past, about his father, and then proceeds to build Daryl back together again by telling him how nothing they are doing could possibly be wrong. His father cannot hurt him anymore and he’s allowed to feel the way he feels. 

And equally slow, Daryl sees that he’s not treated differently in Alexandria. Of course he knows his father can’t hurt him any more, and he’s not going to come back to beat him down for this either. So, he calms down, adjusts to the new situation. 

It’s probably not love.

Or so Daryl keeps telling himself, reminding himself in every turn how he’s a Dixon, and how there was no way in hell anyone would ever _love_ a Dixon. 

At least he feels somewhat content, even happy, when he’s with Paul. To be completely honest with himself in the wee hours of a sleepless night when he can’t help but think about his choices, past and present, he doesn’t fully understand these feelings.

He feels calm and safe, and he’s not anxious or afraid. 

But mostly, he gets surprised constantly by those little touches Paul steals from him every now and then. 

He touches his arm in a crowd, even in the middle of a meeting or when they are fighting for their lives against the masses of the dead walking. In all honesty, they feel nice, soothing. And they are. The touches are comforting. They calm him down; make him know he’s still there, and he’s still fighting, and that he’s not going anywhere.

Those touches never hurt him; _never_. It confuses the hell out of Daryl, but yet, despite his natural reaction to shy away from them, he’s more than willing to receive more of them. He doesn’t always even realize it himself, how he leans into those touches, and how he’s never quite felt like this. 

Sometimes, though, it becomes all too much for Daryl to bear, and he gets overwhelmed at the kindness in the touches. It makes him push himself away from the other man, pacing back and forth in front of him like a caged tiger, until he manages to take a hold of his own emotions. And even then Jesus just waits patiently, yet watching him closely, when Daryl’s calmed down enough, and then works to distract him, by asking something only Daryl could help him with, like fishing, like hunting, like maintaining his crossbow, or explain to Jesus how his bike works. 

Yeah, sometimes, it was all just too much. 

He isn’t used to them, and he knows it. 

Nobody really gave him much attention or affection when he was growing up. His mother maybe, but all that was hers have now faded into nothingness. And Jesus’ touches, and the way he looks at him, and the way he talks to him, all of his have the power to cause storms inside of him; tornadoes, blizzards and hurricanes colliding into one large super storm and tearing through his already tumultuous mind.

Of course, it is different with Paul. 

Because all the times Daryl’s been touched with some kind of close contact in mind have been full of rage or done because of money or full of expectations of promised drugs. And even then all of it had been messy, raw and rough with no intention of being gentle. Paul on the other hand lets him to get used to them; he doesn’t move fast or slow, he just waits for his permission, and shows him how something like a gentle swipe of fingers over the cheek can send tingles through his body, that rest heavily in the pit of his stomach. 

So, it’s not a wonder that when he actually gets into them, when he finds he can derive more and more pleasure – not sexual, but that closeness he needs – from those touches from Paul.

He doesn’t even argue much when Jesus calls him “touch starved”. 

They’re discreet about them.

Jesus doesn’t want to embarrass Daryl, and he doesn’t want to tell everyone until the hunter was ready to announce their bond to the people, what ever that was. But in meetings, when they were sitting next to each other, or in the car, on a run, Jesus’ hand squeezes his thigh, or trails absentmindedly over Daryl’s back; up and down, in slow circular movements. Daryl scoots closer, as subtly as possible, bringing his hand onto Jesus’ hand, and thumb brushing over his skin. And sometimes his hand rests on Daryl’s shoulder, the weight there soothing the archer when they discuss about the rebuild or about the supply runs. 

They evolved from touches very slowly, though. 

It takes Daryl _six months_ to trust Jesus enough that they can sleep in the same room. 

He’s still staking claim to that bedroom in the house of Aaron and Eric’s. Because of that, Jesus had more or less reallocated himself from the Grimes’ house.

He’s caught sleeping on the couch more often than not. 

It makes Daryl chortle out loud when he comes home at the crack of dawn and sees Jesus snoring on the couch, drool on his cheek and his beanie askew on his head, and his hair a subtle mess. But then, he trips on Jesus’ boots and clothes on the floor, and hurtles onto the floor with a loud crash that is quite probably heard by every walker within the tri-county area.

“Wha--?!” Jesus groans, jumping up, and in turn tripping onto Daryl’s feet. 

“For fucks sake, the hell are you doin’, asshole?!” Daryl screams out loud at the light haired man, who has his beanie now fallen over his eyes. Jesus sighs deep and tries to clamber up from the floor, at the same time as Aaron and Eric run downstairs with an axe and a shotgun, trying to get their eyes to focus in the dark, before Eric finds the light switch. 

“I was sleeping, Daryl,” Jesus chuckles, as he flips around and sits on the floor, leaning his back against the couch. Daryl rolls over too, propping himself against his elbows, before he sits up, eyeing Jesus somewhat disgruntled. 

“The hell is ya shit all over the floor?” Daryl growls, rubbing his knee he seemed to have knocked against the floor roughly. 

“Would somebody please explain what are you two doing at this hour?” Eric asks, standing above the duo with his hands on his hips, hair flattened into a wonky, side swept Mohawk, as he taps his foot against the floor.

“How ‘bout ya don’t leave them clothes in the middle of the floor next time?” Daryl barks, standing up. Despite his angered tone, he offers his hand to Jesus and pulls the other man up from the floor. 

He just shrugs as an answer and picks up his stuff – shirt, jacket, coat and boots – from the floor. 

“This is just ridiculous, Paul, we have a perfectly good guestroom upstairs, from now on you’ll sleep there!” Aaron groans, wiping his eyes. 

“Nah… he can sleep in my room,” Daryl shrugs back, picking up his crossbow and heading for the stairs. Albeit, both Aaron and Eric are surprised by this, they are too tired to even consider a long ass palaver about this new turn of events. 

Jesus shrugs at first, but when he follows Daryl up the stairs, there’s a distinguishable grin of happiness on his face. 

* * *

After that it takes just _three_ months for Daryl to invite him into the same bed. Not out of a whim, because Daryl doesn’t do that. He does it out of choice, out of need. 

It is after a particularly rough confrontation with the Saviors.

Obviously the sounds of fighting drew in walkers nearby and they ended up fighting both the Saviors and the walkers alike. 

It was a pipe dream to hope for no losses. There were so many they lost at that one battle, and so many they lost because of the walkers.

It was the panic that settled into their minds when the walkers crowded them all, when the first walkers arrived, slouching towards them determined and with only one thought in their dead existing minds; their dead hands grabbing people like they were just picking apples, trapping their victims without mercy. 

The arrival of the walkers made even the Saviors panicky and anxious; their side suffered even more casualties. 

The screams of the people, the sounds of walkers tearing through the skin of the wounded and uninjured they had ambushed, gnawing the flesh, and bones, like it was nothing but cotton candy. Pulling guts and limbs apart as the dying people drowned to their own blood. 

The fighting parties quickly retreated, while the screams of the dying were now that one thing that haunted everyone’s minds, despite there was nothing they could have done to help the bitten. 

Nothing more than a bullet or a pike through the skull. 

It’s no wonder that the fight has left Daryl and Jesus both physically exhausted. 

But for Daryl it’s harder; it takes a toll on him emotionally because of his adverse history with them, with the Saviors. He isn’t sad about those people dying, no. He’s just completely disgusted that that people like they exist and they are flourishing even now. It also leaves Jesus worrying his mind out of Daryl. 

It is dark, pitch black; as per ordered the people left on guard had turned off all the lights. 

When the group stumbles through the gate in various states of shock and anger, Daryl heads straight for the house, with Jesus, Aaron and Eric in tow. They are all covered in blood and guts, bruises forming on their skin, with scrapes to add to them. He’s got adrenaline rushing through his veins, his head is full of images he’d rather unsee, and sounds of the fight still clash in his ears. 

It is probably the same for the others, but right now he’s anything but observant. 

The house, their house, is dark. It’s clean, almost sterile, and their presence inside of it seems to fight with every natural law as there is mud and muck with pieces of guts and blood dripping from their bodies and clothes. It’s silent, and that silence hurts their ears now. When Daryl drops a glass of water Eric just forced into his hand, the sound of shattering glass makes their ears ring. 

“Daryl?” 

Jesus’ voice echoes in Daryl’s ears. 

He feels his hand on his arm, tugging him firmly but gently out of the kitchen. He hears him talking to him all the way to upstairs, mumbling something soothing and calming to him. 

He fucking doesn’t want to get cleaned, no, he isn’t injured. But he’s not saying the words out loud, and Jesus pushes him towards the bathroom door. 

He makes it inside the bathroom, the door closing behind him, before he slumps onto the floor, and doesn’t want to move. Not even Jesus can talk him out of it, not immediately, and it’s more than enough to scare him nearly mindless. 

“Daryl? Talk to me,” he calls out while pushing him against the sleek, white tub. 

He grabs and tugs the leather jacket, the vest, his shirt, gliding his fingers over Daryl’s torso, arms and neck in a frantic search for that one scratch that might just be the end of it. He examines his body from head to toe, even when Daryl tries to push him away. Jesus knows why, and doesn’t get fazed by the hands trying feebly to push him aside, and he doesn’t remove his shirt. 

But despite the resistance Jesus continues his check up. And Daryl lets him. It’s like he derives more strength from those touches he so desperately needs from the man he could barely stand some year earlier. Maybe he should admit that dislike was just self-deceit. 

When Jesus doesn’t find anything alarming, despite some bruises and few nicks here and there, and blood that isn’t his, he tells Daryl to take a shower. 

He wants to help him, God knows he does, but he couldn’t live it down if Daryl rejected him because of it. So, he proceeds to pace back and forth behind the bathroom door until he emerges from the steam filled room with a towel on his waist, and skittishly slinks around Jesus, before sitting onto his bed. 

He still sits there, his wet towel around his waist, when Jesus comes back from his own shower, wearing boxer shorts and the wet towel over his shoulders.

“Daryl, c’mon, talk to me,” he tries to coax, “I can’t help you if I don’t know what is it.”

“Jus’ tired,” he growls a stupid, half-assed reply, too stubborn to admit it’s not just that. 

He is. He is tired. He’s not denying that. He’s so fucking tired that he can barely function. But he’s more than afraid of his own reactions against the Saviors. He’s afraid he’s turning into his father. He’s afraid that he’ll hurt those he loves.

“I know you are tired,” Jesus whispers, as he reaches for another towel, and begins to dry Daryl up slowly, “Just… just let me help you, Daryl.”

He kneels in front of the broken hunter and smiles reassuringly, running that soft white towel over Daryl’s chest and arms, before he clambers back up again and ruffles his still dripping wet hair, doing his best to get it dry enough. He throws the towel aside, brushing his palm over Daryl’s cheek gently he tilts his head up so he can see his eyes. 

“Here, let me get you some clothes,” Jesus says, and goes to find some clothes for Daryl. It takes a short while, but he brings back few items. He helps him put on a t shirt, and then hands him a pair of boxers, and jeans, and actually blushing when Daryl unabashedly just drops his towel and slides the boxers on. 

“You should get some sleep,” Jesus suggests, pointing at the bed, “You need it.”

“Yeah,” Daryl grunts a reply, and looks at the pillow to his right. 

And when Jesus begins to settle himself on the air mattress on the floor, like always, he stops the man. 

“Ya - - Ya can sleep on the bed,” he mumbles. 

He watches closely as Jesus hesitates for a fleeting moment, before he sheds what little clothing he had thrown on after the shower and tosses the garments onto the chair in the corner of the room, before climbing onto the bed.

He leaves space between them, smiling comfortingly as he pulls the sheet over them both, and chews the inside of his cheek clearly waiting for Daryl to change his mind – or launch off the bed in order to get away from Jesus.

He doesn’t.

“I hacked those boys into pieces,” Daryl mumbles into the darkness, aware that Jesus is still awake. 

“I know. I saw, I did it too. It was either them or you.”

He doesn’t judge. He _knows_ how much Daryl dislikes that group and he could never judge the archer for what he has done; he isn’t so innocent himself. 

The room falls silent after that and despite the shock and the strain; they too fall asleep soon after. 

They sleep like that, tentatively close by one another. 

* * *

There’s no sex, no touching either, really. Not while they sleep in the same bed together. It’s not because Daryl doesn’t want to – he doesn’t deny nor ask for it. It’s mostly because Jesus wants to wait for him to be in the right head space, and he still insists on Daryl to be comfortable with him.

“Who the fuck says ‘m not?” Daryl asks one night, but Jesus doesn’t answer. 

He doesn’t need to. He can see it in Daryl’s eyes. 

The archer is worried that he’ll get hurt. Daryl isn’t one to be afraid of physical pain; he’s done plenty to prove that. But pain induced by someone close to him, that’s when the pain can get more horrific, and even beyond the physical aspect – it becomes mental. And Jesus knows how much he’s suffered from mental and physical abuse and he won’t be the one to inflict any onto Daryl. He just doesn’t know how to tell him, how to make him _believe_ , that he’ll never hurt him, even if his life would depend on it. 

It takes Daryl for about two months to get used to another warm body next to his. 

But when he begins to learn the way Jesus breathes and the way he moves in his sleep – and honestly he’s spend several sleepless nights just observing – and even his scent, he finally becomes comfortable with the other man’s presence on the bed. 

He makes a mental note to remember that Jesus travels while he sleeps. He moves along, in a looping manner, squirming in the bed, and hogging all the blankets and sheets to himself. Like a damn inch worm. Not that Daryl minds, he usually hates blankets because he hardly ever is cold enough to use them. 

He’s still not much of a talker, and he doesn’t really know how to tell Jesus that it has become nice to wake up and feel someone there. He actually likes it when he wakes up with Jesus wrapped around his back like a tick in tar – what he doesn’t like much is when Jesus snores into his ear. 

There’s something intimate when he has his hands under the T shirt Daryl keeps still wearing in bed. He knows Jesus has _felt_ the scars, _seen them_ , but always acts like he doesn’t notice them, like they are not even there. He’s never asked from Daryl about them either. But he suspects Jesus already knows without asking. It was weird in Daryl’s mind, but he manages to look past it and not rehash any awkwardness between them. 

So, touching, and being close to someone isn’t painful anymore, and it makes Daryl grow comfortable and even bold with it. He even instigates some of the touches, always shocking and titillating Jesus down to his very core, especially when he does it the first time in public. At one point Jesus is certain Daryl’s doing it just to scare the shit out of him, to get a reaction out of him, and then chuckle at it in his head, but he isn’t one to complain about it.

First time they kiss, Jesus asks a permission to do so, because even when Daryl looks he’s ready for it, he needs to be certain. _He needs to be certain._

“Can I kiss you, Daryl?” 

It sounds exasperated in Daryl’s ears, and it probably is, and he can’t help but glance at Jesus’ lips, as he licks his own hastily. He doesn’t know how to answer or what could he say that didn’t sound meaningless, so he stays silent for a good while before he manages to nod. 

It’s awkward. Both fumbling with their hands, not really knowing where to put them, logistically, or if it’s allowed to touch the other even. There’s an embarrassing clash of teeth and Daryl steps on Jesus’ foot. 

They do not do it again. 

Not until a week later, just before Daryl is scheduled to leave on a run. Jesus slams the door shut right in front of him, stopping the dark haired man effectively. He links his fingers with Daryl’s and tells him that he can’t just let him go like that. He kisses Daryl without asking this time – kisses him properly, for the first time behind the closed door of their bedroom, and it’s far less awkward than it was before. When Daryl pulls away, Jesus chases his lips, stealing one last quick peck on his lips, as he looks up at him. They are both exasperated and flushed.

Jesus can’t stop smirking, though, whereas Daryl is completely speechless. Yet, glaring at him, arching an eyebrow at him too, Daryl scoffs and makes his exit out of the room. 

He catches Jesus wandering around the compound in a kiss induced haze, smirking through out the entire day, which surprisingly doesn’t piss him off. Actually, _the Grouchy Grabass_ is proud of it. He’s not willing to admit that he’s been equally elevated by the whole thing himself as well. 

There are more kisses to follow, and sometimes, it’s just hard and rough and hasty, but sometimes – just sometimes – it’s so sweet, soft and slow that it hurts Daryl’s insides to be so close to someone. But Jesus gets it and he never presses forward or more than Daryl can give, and for that he’s more than glad about.


	9. We Are Still Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sex is sweet and gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus and Daryl's first time isn't banging hard and rough. 
> 
> Skippy! <3  
> Walnut! <3  
> Mesi! <3  
> Tea! <3  
> D! <3  
> L! <3  
> Jen! <3
> 
> Inspiration for this chapter and smut and poses came to me from [the awesome art of LP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6390328/chapters/14632243)!

When Daryl wakes up to Jesus’ lips trailing lazy, languid kisses onto his neck, he’s surprised and slightly startled. 

Waking up to kisses feels good, and the sudden bout of anxiety and nervousness melts away quickly because he does trust the man by his side now. The other man is stuck to his back, holding him tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him like a damn octopus, his own legs tangled with the sheet and Jesus’ feet. 

In all his life, he’s never woken up like this before, but he doesn’t find himself complaining about it either – it feels good and right, despite this is the first time he’s been this handsy with Daryl. 

It’s been the better part of a year since they have been sleeping in the same bed; just sleeping, or spooning when Jesus pulls Daryl closer and all the touches, all the kisses and everything in between - - but there has been no sex. 

All this time, their relationship has been about the intimacy, the desperately needed closeness they both get from being together. 

They’ve been more than content enough for when they come home, and find the other one there, still alive and still pushing through the gruesome life they’ve all fallen into now. It is about the small gestures, for when Jesus brushes his fingers over Daryl’s or when Daryl finds himself leaning into Jesus late at night on the couch or when they are all freezing in the damn car on one of their supply runs. 

It has never been just about sex.

When he got to know the other man’s presence in the bed with him, Daryl’s more surprised they haven’t gotten into doing things before; other things aside from kissing. 

Truthfully, Jesus would never complain if Daryl would say he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ have sex with him ever. Because Daryl is what he needs, what he wants and he’ll be damned if he’ll betray the archer who has been handed the shitty end of the stick most of his life.

“Hey,” he greets, stretching his arms and legs, moving a little, pressing firmly into the chest of the light haired man, and feeling the warmth of Jesus’ body heat spread all over where their skins touch. He twitches slightly, when he feels Jesus’ morning hard-on pressing against his thigh, but gradually relaxes against Jesus’ chest again, humming approvingly. He’s used to it by now because God knows how many times his own dick has had a mind of its own in the morning. 

Jesus grins rather cheesily, with a slight hue of pink over the bridge of his nose, spreading onto his cheeks.

“Mornin’,” he whispers, nosing his neck, before planting a chaste kiss on the corner of the archer’s lips, and lets his hands trail down to caress his sides, brushing over his taut stomach, and sliding them onto his thigh.

Daryl grunts at the feel of his skin beginning to crawl at the touch of Jesus’ fingers, and his heart rate speeds up quickly. When Jesus touches him low on his stomach, Daryl’s cock twitches in interest, and his mind quickly shedding all the drowsiness from his body, and his eyes become a bit more alert, twinkling with curiosity. 

He arches his eyebrow at Jesus for a split second, and then bites down his own lip when Jesus nibbles Daryl’s neck, caressing his broad chest ever so slowly, feeling the man tense and shift next to him. 

Jesus stops laving attention onto his neck, and rests his forehead against Daryl’s temple, and licks his lips, while he brings his hand onto Daryl’s shoulder. He counts down from one hundred in his mind, willing himself to calm down immediately, knowing that he still doesn’t want to push boundaries with Daryl. 

“Paul…” Daryl whispers, and it’s still weird for him to hear Daryl speak his real name out loud like that. Especially when he got so used to him spitting _Jesus_ out of his mouth like it was fire and brimstone. 

“Mmhh,” he murmurs softly. 

A gasp escapes Daryl’s lips when Jesus drags his free hand, the pads of his fingers, across Daryl’s sensitive stomach, and over his sides. He begins to say something, but it fades off into a groan as Jesus pushes his fingers slightly harder and flattening his palm tight over his stomach, the touch enough to anchor their bodies together, not even a quark could fit between them, as it is skin against skin. Daryl groans, reaching behind and grabbing a handful of his hair, pulling him even closer, making Jesus let out a choked off moan. 

Closeness; it had suddenly become more important to Daryl than the act of sexual gratification. And with Paul, he had allowed himself to drop down the walls that he’d built around himself. 

“Please, tell me to stop, if - -,” Jesus moans against his neck, “Please.” 

“I…” Daryl starts, “I will,” he pants out loud, voice still hoarse from the sleep, and his hands clutching onto Jesus, as he slowly turns his head – enough to have a perfect access to Jesus’ neck – and begins to nip at Jesus’ ear, timidly at first, but quickly finding the fluidness he has hidden underneath all the layers of him; mimicking Jesus’ languid kisses he soon finds it pleasurable to tease the other man with his mouth. 

He lets go of the light haired man, but leans closer, to continue to kiss his neck, twisting so that he’s half facing him now, and his hands trailing over the bare sides before they meet the waistband of his boxers that cling onto his narrow hips. Jesus’ fingers run over Daryl’s beard, and trail down a line over his throat, and moaning softly as Daryl’s fingers dip under the cotton of his shorts, and cup the perky ass cheek firmly.

His hips thrust forward, as his back arches, and Daryl feels his cock grinding against Jesus’ crotch. He bucks into it, feels the jolt of heat in his own cock, pleasing sharp and sore and yet so right, his hands seizing at the sheets desperately. 

“Fucking Christ, Daryl…,” Jesus groans quietly, breathing out his name full of promise, and then he’s coming down to kiss Daryl, begging desperately, before he gasps against his lips, “Daryl, _please_ tell me you want this.”

“Yeah,” Daryl replies, voice heavy with desire, that hasn’t been present in ages. 

He brings his head off the bed enough to get another kiss, chasing Jesus’ lips eagerly, one hand coming up to grip at his neck. He wants to see more, all of a sudden, wants to see it all, and wants to see every muscle in his arms and back and stomach work. God, he wants to savor and relish the feeling of Jesus’ body flush against his. But Jesus, that jerk, is picking up his pace, and Daryl can hear in his quickened breathing that he’s getting over that point of no return. 

“Yeah, I want this, Paul,” Daryl groans against the shell of his ear, and he can feel the expectant jolt of happiness surging through Jesus’ body. 

“I don’t think I can last very long, Daryl,” Jesus moans hastily, as he clambers up on his knees, and makes Daryl scoff out loud. 

No, he doesn’t think he will either. Both of them are so hard it hurts, and at that moment, Daryl can’t even remember why they haven’t done this before. 

Looking at Daryl, as he skims his hands over his thighs and hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of Daryl’s boxers, looking for that one flicker, a tell tale sign he needs to stop. 

Maybe his silent prayer is heard, because there isn’t one. 

Daryl’s chest, neck, and face are flushed with a pleasing shade of pink and his gaze is steady, albeit clouded with lust, and he doesn’t stop Jesus from moving on. His lips are parted, his chest rising and descending as he breathes steadily. And very slowly, cautiously, Jesus begins to tug down the boxer shorts watching Daryl’s stomach hollowing at the pleasurable friction, mesmerized by the trail of hair that is revealed slowly. 

His fingers tremble as the boxers slide off and reveal the semi hard cock of Daryl’s. The stupid grin on Jesus’ face is something of a sight to behold, making Daryl blush heavily under his stare. He props himself up against his elbows.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he grins, throwing the boxers on the floor, before rolling on his back, and kicking his feet up in the air, wiggling quickly out of his own and tossing them on the floor as well. He reaches over to touch Daryl’s stomach, and feels the muscles ripple, and his body quaking underneath his gentle touch. 

“I just… I just want to prove to you that it feels good. That’s all,” he whispers, laying down next to Daryl, slightly behind him, kissing his shoulder, and slowly nosing his neck, while placing sweet kisses onto the heated skin. 

Jesus’ hand runs over his chest, lazily thumbing at one nipple and then the other, pinches them between his fingers until they are taut little buds and Daryl is whimpering, his hips unhurriedly rocking. Daryl gasps his voice still hoarse from sleep, and he shifts, feeling Jesus’ erection slot into the cleft of his ass. It startles him how it doesn’t feel bad, or wrong, in anyway, and it scares him even more to realize that he doesn’t have his father’s voice in his head anymore. 

His hand slides over the soft, white sheet, fingers dig into the mattress just as Jesus kisses his way down to his shoulder, and over his scarred back. He tenses, and then shudders from surprise when he kisses one of the scars, fingers gently rubbing over the others. 

“Paul… What are ya…?” he gasps, his back ripples and he turns to look at the other man over his shoulder. 

Their eyes lock quickly. Jesus slides his fingers down Daryl’s sides, the pads of his fingers skating over the taut, flat stomach, and over the groin, before ghosting over the achingly throbbing cock of Daryl’s. He draws circles onto the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen that draw out soft gasps and moans from Daryl. His hips are grinding against Jesus, and his mind can hardly grasp the idea of how badly he wants this to happen.

“Did you sleep last night?” Jesus asks, whispering against the shell of his ear, distracting Daryl from his blissful state, and makes him feel like he fell down from a roof top. 

“The fuck? Ya doin’ _this_ and ya askin’ about how I slept?” Daryl asks, trying to sound confident, but his voice trembles too much from the burning desire that fluctuates inside of him and from a sudden wave of disappointment. 

Jesus chuckling confuses him even more, but when his shaky fingers wrap around the base of Daryl’s now aching cock, he can almost deduce why he asked him the question. Asking something so disturbingly irrelevant was meant to distract Daryl as much as Jesus himself. 

His left arm slithers under Daryl’s shoulders, and he curls his hand to gently stroke his cheek, as he begins to fondle his throbbing erection with gentle desire.

“Mmhh, sleep’s important,” Jesus shrugs noncommittally, being teasingly casual about his choice of distraction methods, as his fingers keep drawing intricate shapes on Daryl’s shaft. 

The archer looks down, licking his lips and whining quietly, but he ignores what he just said, and shifts his body enough that he’s able to snake his arm behind himself, and down between them, down over Jesus’ stomach, pushing him slightly off him, and then with equally shaky hand cupping that throbbing meat that pokes incessantly between his ass cheeks. 

“Unnhhh…” It’s the sound Jesus makes, groaning into Daryl’s ear, when he feels him touching his cock as shy and unsure as Jesus had just a moment earlier. 

“Did _ya_ sleep last night, Paul?” Daryl hisses back. 

He replies by kissing the archer’s jawline, nipping playfully at the junction of his jaw and neck, thumb sliding over the tip of his cock, smearing pre-come onto his fingers, eliciting a surprised yelp from him. In return Daryl’s fingers continue their exploration, and stroking his shaft. Jesus murmurs against Daryl’s ear, and melts into the touch that he wouldn’t have expected in a million years. 

Daryl’s fingers massage and stroke Jesus’ cock slow, and Jesus sighs from the delightful friction, his head slumping down forehead resting against Daryl’s cheek. He gasps out loud, shaking his head a little, but not to stop Daryl but to try and grasp at those shreds of willpower that he doesn’t come all over Daryl’s hand at that instant, as his body quivers at the contact of the fingers of the hunter. He can feel Daryl grinning, smiling that pretty smile of his, but that he shows far too rarely, and he smiles too, remembering his task at hand, quite literally. His fingers begin to caress his cock again, and he too enjoys it immensely when it makes Daryl shudder, and arch his back, his head falling against Jesus’ chest easily, both of their bodies now entwined together. 

He groans at the weird position his arm is bent in, but then, Jesus moves twisting their bodies a little more. Daryl slides between Jesus’ thighs effortlessly, and Jesus grasps his shoulder, while stroking his shaft with that slow, delectable pace. The light haired recruiter lifts his knee up against Daryl’s side, and slides his palm over Daryl’s chest, while still stroking his shaft with his other hand, in that same slow, enjoyable pace as before.

Daryl brings his palm onto Jesus’ face, cupping his cheek, as he keeps doing the same with his dick, mirroring the movements of Jesus’ fingers. That blissful look on Daryl’s face makes Jesus whimper, as he kisses Daryl’s shoulder sloppily. He can’t imagine what is going on behind those steel blue eyes of his right now. Maybe it was the same desire and ache as he was going through, or maybe it was that insane storm of emotions that always seemed to cling onto the archer, because he was stomped down one too many times by his father. And he just wants to prove to the dark haired man that he is worth everything he has to offer and more.

So, he brings his hand onto Daryl’s neck, tilting his head towards his, and kisses him softly, almost chastely, on his lips. His right hand stills on Daryl’s shaft and he looks down at the archer, stroking his cheek ever so lightly, “I think I love you.”

Daryl whimpers as a reply, his fingers curling around Jesus’ shoulder.

“I love you,” Jesus reiterates, breathing rough and ragged but sounding so sure. 

His hips thrust against Daryl’s back and ass, and he buries his face into the crook of Daryl’s neck, breathing in the scent of woods and oil and smoke mixed with something that is pure Daryl. The archer grabs a handful of his hair, pulling him even closer to him needing that closeness again more than anything else.

There are sweat beads on both of their faces, their hair getting slick from it, and sheen layer glistens on their skins. Jesus’ beard scrapes against the sheer and sensitive skin of his neck, and he tilts his head a little, surprised how it sends new kind of pleasure waves coursing through him. He grinds himself against Jesus, for more friction, more of the touches, more of the closeness, more of Jesus himself.

Jesus’ hold tightens around his shoulders, and he quickly tips the archer to his side. He sighs deep at the loss of contact when Daryl’s fingers slip off his throbbing shaft. There’s a look of surprise on the archer’s face, but it soon changes into realization when Jesus pulls him on top of him, chest to chest, and straddling his thighs.

Dexterous fingers of Jesus return onto the sensitive tip of Daryl’s cock, and copious amount of pre-come dribbles, and flows over them. The touch is merely a light brush over the heated skin, with only pads of his fingers petting his achy cock, dancing and gliding around the edge of the head. Daryl can feel himself twitching, and it’s so relentless, that he can barely sit straight anymore. His hips jerk upward, stabbing his cock into the touch, his eyes closing and mouth gaping open for a moment.

He brings his hand between their stomachs, reciprocating the touches onto Jesus’ shaft, mirroring all the teasing movements, and listens to the light haired man groaning out loud, gripping tightly his shoulders, and his forehead resting against Daryl’s shoulder. It’s not long before Daryl leans against Jesus, his reddened face pressing against the crook of Jesus’ neck, slick with sweat. Both of their stroking becomes jerky and trembling despite their best efforts.

Their cocks rub against one another, and Jesus wraps his hand around both of them, while Daryl wraps his own hand around them from the other side. Fingers touching, they keep stroking in unison.

“God, go slow, I want us to come together,” Jesus whispers, panting heavily, his free hand sliding down his back, onto Daryl’s bare ass cheeks, making him shudder, almost violently.

“No… no,” he whimpers, “I’m not… I’m not…”

He still has issues; he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. He’s not nearly ready and he trusts Jesus enough to tell him not to get offended when he sets restrictions, or bounds him from doing something. 

“I know, Love,” Jesus pants, his hand rubbing Daryl’s side and back, and pulling him closer, “I know… we don’t have to,” he murmurs, kissing Daryl’s chest once, twice.

“Aah, God, ‘m so fuckin’ close,” Daryl replies, nodding, his is voice huskier than normally and whimpering half into Jesus’ neck. He’s on the edge, and he desperately doesn’t want to, but at the same time he does, come yet, to tumble over that edge, and feel his release in Jesus’ hands. 

Because this is real. 

Jesus kisses Daryl’s chest, his tongue traces circles around his nipples that are already hard peaks, he even gently bites one, before mouthing his way onto his shoulder, and neck. Daryl’s body arches, and he thrusts his hips harder against Jesus; the soft moan that escapes from the swollen, wet lips of his send a shudder through Jesus. He can’t help but wonder how perfectly Daryl fits against his body, how he responds to all of his touches. He still has his doubts, he fears Daryl isn’t ever going to be able to be with him like he hopes and wants. But this moment, Daryl’s body and his own wrapped around each other, both of them feeling the same primal urge of release building inside of them - - it was mind blowing for Jesus.

Things become urgent, their hips undulating against one another. The archer slowly cupping Jesus’ balls, his fingers running over the sensitive skin and over the almost painfully aching cock, and it makes him lurch forward, capture Daryl’s mouth with his own, and kiss him fiercely. It’s tongue and teeth and it’s sloppy but he can’t help but moan into it, his hand stroking Daryl’s cheek and jaw line as he keeps stroking his cock. 

Daryl’s hand stills for a moment, but continues quickly enough. His touches are teasing and fluttering, and Jesus is sure he is seeing supernovas behind his eyelids. His hips jerk forward and he’s quickly bucking into the fist of Daryl’s as he continues to kiss the archer.

“Fuck,” Daryl bites out, when Jesus strokes him harder few times, and his hand travels down his neck, and arm before sliding over his abdomen. 

“Daryl,” he pants out loud, nuzzling his neck, and struggling to keep himself from thrashing too much, from moaning out louder, his cock touch sensitive already and he can’t take this too much longer. 

He hears Daryl long, low growling groan when he licks at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and feels his body jerk and tremble, just like he had a moment ago.

“Oh God, Daryl, I love you so much,” Jesus whispers, nails sliding over the bare, sweat slick skin of Daryl’s abdomen and his body twists, as his hips buck, stomach hollowing and back arches. He doesn’t expect Daryl to say them back at him. It was majorly big when he had admitted that he ‘might like him’, but words hardly ever meant that much to the dark haired hunter, but his actions meant the world. 

Daryl grinds himself against Jesus, his breathing now rapid and ragged. 

“That’s it, Daryl,” Jesus coos at him, twisting his wrist as he touches him with alternating slow and fast strokes, watching Daryl’s hand pump up and down at the same pace, and his index finger rubbing the tip of his cock. 

Daryl lets out a long whine from the back of his throat, his legs trembling almost violently, “C’mon, Love…” he whispers into Daryl’s ear, pumping his hand up and down. It’s the warmth of his palm, and the tightness of his hand around Daryl’s cock has him mewling and twisting, bucking against the strokes.

“’m gonna…” Daryl pants out loud, managing that much, “’m gonna come…” his eyes now squeezing tightly, as Jesus’ thumb rubs over the head of his cock, tracing over the corona with slow, slow like syrup gliding down a window, circular motions, just enough to get a reaction.

“Come for me, Love,” he whispers again, his breath hot against Daryl’s ear. He mouths over the shell of his ear, catching the lobe in his teeth, biting down lightly, before making his way down his lover’s neck, flicking out his tongue over the hollow of his throat, the way he had just moments earlier, drawing out soft sighs and groans from him.

Daryl growls suddenly, grasping Jesus’ hair, and pulling his head back, and attacks his throat with his lips, nipping the sweaty skin with his teeth before he licks the column of Jesus’ neck, all the way from his collar bones to the shell of his ear, making him tremble. His skin tastes salty, when Daryl sucks the sensitive spot underneath his ear. Jesus can feel him leaving a bruise there, and the aggressiveness of Daryl’s makes the pit of his stomach burn with desire. His cock pulses against Daryl’s and his hand. Daryl clutches Jesus’ shoulders, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Daryl…” Jesus groans out loud, that fades into a sight, before he tenses, and comes over both of their hands and covers his lower stomach with come. At the same time his fingers tighten around Daryl’s cock, and he brushes over the tip few more times, drawing an exasperated whimper from Daryl. He kisses lazily and comforting Daryl’s jaw holding onto him as his body tenses, muscles rippling and he cries out when he comes, spasms wreaking through him, as he spills himself over their hands and stomachs just like Jesus had a moment earlier. 

Daryl feels completely spent, slumping against Jesus, who then rolls him onto the bed, next to him, still kissing his neck, and jaw, before claiming his lips into a sloppy, slow kiss. He shudders again when Jesus brushes his sweat slick hair back from his face. 

“Stay there,” he whispers at Daryl, and climbs out of the bed, walking into the bathroom. 

The hunter’s eyes follow Jesus into the bathroom, his mind empty from all the things he normally tries to quiet down. 

His eyes droop when Jesus walks back into the room, carrying two towels, and climbs back onto the bed. The bearded man’s body is pleasingly warm, when he crawls closer to Daryl, and slowly begins to wash off their come from their abdomens in gentle rubbing motion. He uses the other towel to dry the skin.

The way he looks at Daryl is intense, but it’s the first time he’s not squirming, trying to get away from the look. Instead, he closes his eyes, rolling closer to Jesus, and searches for his hand to lock his fingers with his. 

His whole body feels sated and relaxed and he can’t seem to move a muscle, not right now. He’s only vaguely aware that Jesus finishes wiping them both clean, and gently dabbing the towel to dry them off. 

“Paul…” he mumbles, and feels him curl himself into his side, tucking his head under Jesus’ chin. Jesus throws a leg over his thighs, and one arm over his stomach, and he’s never been happier than he is now to be thoroughly wrapped into his own private Jesus blanket. 

“I love you,” Daryl breathes out, sighing contently and promptly falling asleep.

Maybe he is broken and damaged, and maybe he truly loved the blonde haired girl, but that doesn’t mean he can’t love Paul Rovia with equal passion, and maybe he eventually would be able to get the whole fucking puzzle figured out with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Of this fic. With a happy end. I can't deal with the show right now and their constant need to shit on the characters. The only focus they have is suffering and crawling and I needed something different. So, my version of things is this. 
> 
> I hope you all liked it. I'm not much of a writer, nor am I very eloquent one. And this is yet another experiment of mine in the category "Can I write? No, I can't. Fuck." and yet I always choose the most weirdest and difficult subjects to push my own boundaries.
> 
> There are many people to thank, quite honestly. I was encouraged by so many people and told time and time again that this stupid fic of mine did not suck. Because it could have. Sucked, that is. It could have sucked so much. 
> 
> [tender_is_the_ghost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_is_the_ghost/pseuds/tender_is_the_ghost) for beta'ing my mess, all you guys who listened to me whine, and assuring me that my ideas weren't stupid or lame or this whole thing wasn't poop. _Thank you so much. I love you!_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think!


End file.
